THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


LOCI   CRITICI 


PASSAGES    ILLUSTRATIVE    OF    CRITICAL 

THEORY    AND    PRACTICE    FROM 

ARISTOTLE    DOWNWARDS 


SELECTED,   PARTLY   TRANSLATED,   AND 
ARRANGED    WITH  NOTES 


GEOKGE  SAINTSBURY,  M.A.  OXON.,  HON.  LL.D.  ABERD. 

PROFESSOR  OF  RHETORIC  AND  ENGLISH  LITERATURE  IN  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF  EDINBURGH 


BOSTON,  U.S.A.,  AND  LONDON 
GINN    &   COMPANY,   PUBLISHERS 

Cbc  Stl)cn<rnm 
1903 


ENTERED  AT  STATIONERS'  HALL 


COPYRIGHT,  1903,  BY 
GEORGE  SAINTSBURY 


ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


College 
Library 

-PN- 


PREFACE 


The  present  volume  is  one  of  the  most  strictly  practical  purpose, 
and  its  compiler  lays  claim,  to  nothing  beyond  mere  "porter's 
work"  —  except  in  the  one  point,  not  common  to  all  porters,  of 
having  perceived  that  the  work  was  needed.  During  the  last  few 
years  the  study  of  Ehetoric  —  long  disused  almost  entirely  in 
England,1  and  pursued  with  somewhat  altered  intent  in  America  — 
has  been  revived  to  some  extent  in  the  former  country,  and  to  a 
very  large  extent,  I  am  informed,  in  the  latter.  In  particular,  so 
far  as  England  is  concerned,  the  recent  institution  of  Honours 
Schools  of  English  Literature  in  the  newer  Universities  almost 
necessarily  involved  the  direction  of  study  to  the  history  and  prin- 
ciples of  criticism.  I  was  enabled,  some  eight  or  nine  years  ago, 
to  take  part  in  the  institution  of  such  a  School  in  the  Victoria 
University,  and  a  little  later  to  undertake  the  charge  of  one  which 
had  been  just  formed  at  Edinburgh  by  my  honoured  predecessor, 
Professor  Masson,  and  by  his  and  my  colleague,  Mr.  Gregory  Smith, 
Lecturer  in  English  at  that  University. 

The  resumption  of  rhetorical-critical  studies,  however,  brought 
with  it,  in  the  changed  circumstances  of  education,  a  new  and  very 
real  difficulty.  In  the  old  days  of  rhetorical  teaching,  every 
student  knew  Latin  with  more  or  less  thoroughness ;  and  in  the 
sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries  most  knew  some  Greek.  This 
last  tongue  has  become  disastrously  strange  at  the  present  day  to 
many  —  probably  to  the  large  majority  —  of  the  students  likely 
to  "  take  "  English :  while  I  fear  it  would  be  sanguine  to  expect 
that  all  of  them  should  read  Latin  with  the  current  ease  which 
enables  a  man  to  extract  the  meaning  of  his  author  without  formal 

1  In  Scotland  the  institution  of  the  Chair  which  I  have  now  the  honour  to  hold, 
and  of  others  later,  kept  it  alive,  or  should  have  done  so,  from  the  very  period 
when  it  was  most  failing. 

iii 


iv  PREFACE 

"construing."  Hence,  what  are,  and  always  must  be,  the  texts 
and  scriptures  of  the  subject  —  Aristotle,  Longinus,  Quintilian,  and 
others  —  have  to  be  sought  in  translations. 

Moreover,  even  supposing  that  these  translations  were  in  all 
cases  easily  attainable  in  entirely  satisfactory  forms,  there  is  the 
further  difficulty  that  they,  with  the  modern  authorities  on  the 
matter,  form  a  small  library,  with  which  it  is  rather  unreasonable 
to  expect  that  the  ordinary  student  will  provide  himself,  and  with 
which,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  most  certainly  does  not.  I  have 
myself  found  this  a  very  real  difficulty  in  eight  years'  actual  prac- 
tice ;  and  from  the  very  first  of  these  years  I  have  meditated  the 
production  (if  necessary  privately  and  at  my  own  expense,  seeing 
that,  for  a  time  at  least,  the  sale  was  not  likely  to  tempt  publishers 
in  England)  of  something  like  this  book.  Recently,  however,  in 
conversation  with  an  American  friend  who  was  du  metier  (Professor 
Gayley  of  the  University  of  California),  I  found  that  there  was 
likely  to  be  a  larger  demand  in  America,  and  my  present  pub- 
lishers, on  the  matter  being  represented  to  them,  offered,  with  great 
kindness  and  spirit,  to  take  the  work  in  hand. 

The  principle  of  the  book  is  to  give  nothing  more  than  the  actual 
text  (with  such  annotation  as  may  be  barely  necessary  to  compre- 
hension) of  the  passages  which  experience  has  shown  me  to  be 
most  useful  for  the  purpose,  from  ancient  writers,  from  Dante, 
from  a  few  Renaissance  critics  of  the  formative  period,  and  from 
English  critics  of  the  Elizabethan  age  and  onwards.  I  have  only 
in  a  few  cases  drawn  on  writers  in  the  modern  foreign  languages 
—  first,  because  it  was  very  important  not  to  make  the  book  too 
big ;  and  secondly,  because  the  matter  of  their  criticism  (which  is 
here  alone  important)  can,  in  almost  every  case,  be  perfectly  well 
exhibited  out  of  English  stores.  The  passages  chosen  from  the 
enormous  bulk  at  hand  are  such  as  may  best  illustrate  the  general 
drift  of  criticism  in  modern  Europe,  with  a  few  exceptions  and 
singularities.  In  giving  this  matter  I  have  taken  as  much  pains  as 
I  could  to  abstain,  as  a  rule,  from  expressing  any  opinions  of  my 
own  except  on  points  of  bare  interpretation.  All  argumentative 
matter  —  all  deduction,  adjustment,  application — is  left  to  the 
teacher,  who  will,  by  using  the  book,  have  his  hands  left  free  and 


PREFACE  V 

his  time  saved  for  this  very  purpose.  Anybody  who  —  studying 
without  a  teacher  or  for  other  reasons  —  wants  my  opinions,  not  in 
my  fatigue-jacket  as  compiler  but  in  a  somewhat  statelier  uniform, 
may  find  them  in  my  History  of  Criticism;  anybody  who  does  not 
want  them  will  seldom  be  troubled  with  them  here. 

The  passages  selected  are,  as  has  been  said,  those  which  I  have 
myself  found  either  indispensable  or  most  useful.  I  have  taken 
the  advice  of  some  of  the  best  available  authorities  on  the  subject ; 
but  if  any  expert  reader  detects  lacunce  or  superfluities,  he  will 
oblige  me  by  letting  me  know  of  them.  The  exclusion  of  living 
writers  and  of  very  modern  critical  phases  is  deliberate;  and  it 
can  be  but  barely  necessary  to  say  that  there  is  no  intention  of 
giving  "  Beauties  of  Criticism."  In  the  case  of  Aristotle  I  have, 
to  save  time  and  labour  (or  rather  under  the  idea  of  doing  so,  for  I 
am  by  no  means  sure  that  it  was  not  the  more  troublesome  process 
of  the  two)  adapted  (in  each  case  with  many  changes)  Twining's 
version  of  the  Poetics  and  the  old  "Oxford"  one  of  the  Rhetoric; 
adding  in  the  former  case,  by  the  kindness  of  my  colleague,  Pro- 
fessor Butcher,  some  variants  from  his  own  admirable  work,  and 
in  the  latter,  by  the  similar  courtesy  of  Bishop  Welldon,  some  from 
his  version  of  the  Rhetoric.  The  translations  of  Dionysius,  Longi- 
nus,  Quintilian,  and  Dante,  as  well  as  all  the  shorter  translated 
extracts,  are  entirely  my  own.  Their  chief  aim  is  at  the  utmost 

possible  closeness.1 

GEORGE   SAINTSBURY. 

EDINBURGH,  July,  1903. 

1  The  notes  indicated  by  numbers,  1,  2,  etc.,  are  mine  ;  those  asterisked 
belong  to  the  originals. 


CONTENTS 

PAGES 

PREFACE 7 iii 

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE xi 

1.    ARISTOTLE.     THE  POETICS 1-21 

Chapter  I,  The  Nature  and  Kinds  of  Poetry,  1.  Chapters  II-V : 
The  Origin  of  Poetry,  3 ;  Comedy,  4 ;  Epic  and  Tragedy,  4. 
Chapter  VI,  The  Definition  and  Constitution  of  Tragedy,  5. 
Chapters  VII-XII,  The  Plot  —  its  Nature  and  Character,  8. 
The  Unity  of  Action,  9.  Chapter  XIII,  The  Tragic  'Anaprla  or 
Frailty,  11.  Chapter  XIV,  The  Oi/cete  'H5oc^  or  Special  Pleas- 
ure, 13.  Chapter  XV,  Character,  15.  Chapters  XVI-XXII, 
Details  and  Miscellanea  on  Tragedy,  17.  Cautions  as  to  Stage 
Probability,  17.  Chapter  XXIII  and  part  of  XXIV,  The  Epic, 
19.  Chapters  XXIV  to  end,  Addenda  on  Poetic  Criticism,  20. 

II.    ARISTOTLE.     THE  RHETORIC 22-31 

Book  III,  Chapter  I,  Style  (and  Delivery  ?),  22.  Chapter  II, 
Diction,  Staple  and  Unfamiliar  (Metaphor),  25.  Chapter  III, 
Frigidity,  27.  Chapters  IV-V,  Similes,  "  Purity,"  28.  Chap- 
ters VI-IX,  Elevation,  Propriety,  Rhythm  —  Loose  and  Periodic 
Style,  28.  Chapters  IX-XII,  Figures,  30.  Chapters  XIII-XIX, 
Arrangement,  31. 

*  III.    FRAGMENT  OF  SIMYLUS  ON  THE  CONDITIONS  OF  LITERARY 

ACHIEVEMENT 32 

IV.   DIONYSIUS  OF  HALICARNASSUS 33-38 

The  Study  of  Style,  33.  The  Sources  of  Beauty,  34.  The 
Importance  of  Rhythm  in  Prose,  34.  The  Supremacy  of  Vari- 
ety, 35.  The  Upstart  Asiatic  Style,  35.  Criticism  of  Plato,  36. 
Criticism  of  Thucydides,  37. 

V.    PHILOSTRATUS  ON  IMAGINATION 39 

VI.   LUCIAN  ON  PRECIOUS  AND  ECCENTRIC  STYLE 39-40 

VII.     LONGINUS.       ON  THE  SUBLIME 41-53 

VIII.    HORACE.    THE  EPISTLE  TO  THE  Pisos,  OR  ART  OF  POETRY     54-58 

IX.    PETRONIUSS 59-61 

On  Declamation,  59.     On  Poetry,  60 


viii  CONTENTS 

PAGES 

X.    QUINTILIAN 62-73 

Faults  and  Figures,  62.  The  Duties  of  the  Teacher  in  Liter- 
ary Criticism,  62.  Use  and  Beauty,  63.  Of  Conceits,  63.  On 
Composition,  or  Deliberate  Cultivation  of  Style,  64.  On  Prose 
Rhythm,  65.  The  Choice  of  Reading,  67.  Judgment  of  Sen- 
eca, 67.  Of  Writing  Better  than  You  Can,  69.  Division  of 
Styles  —  Attic,  Asiatic,  and  Rhodian,  69.  A  Comparison  of 
Greek  and  Latin  Style,  70.  Other  Classifications  of  Style,  72. 

XI.   A.  GELLIUS  ON  VIRGIL'S  "  ETNA  " 74-75 

XII.    BOETHIUS  ON  POETRY 76 

XIII.  DANTE 77-84 

De  Vulgari  Eloquio.     What  the  Vulgar  Tongue  is,  and  of  Its 
Nobility,  77.    The  Qualities  of  an  Illustrious  Vulgar,  78.    The 
Application  of  the  Illustrious  Vulgar  to  Poetry,  79. 

Critical  Passages  from  Other  Works,  82.  The  Virtues  of 
Latin  ;  The  Destructiveness  of  Translation  ;  Form  and  Letter ; 
The  dolce  stil  nuovo. 

XIV.  SELECTIONS  FROM  THE  ITALIAN  CRITICS  OF  THE  SIX- 

TEENTH CENTURY 85-88 

VIDA  on  the  Necessity  of  Stealing,  85.  DANIELLO,  The 
Functions  of  Poets  and  Poetry,  86.  MINTURNO,  The  Three 
Functions  of  the  Poet,  86.  J.  C.  SCALIGER,  The  Connection 
of  the  Poet  and  His  Verse,  87.  CASTE  LVETRO,  The  Three 
Unities,  87.  CINTHIO  GIRALDI,  The  Liberty  of  Romance,  87. 
PATRIZZI,  "Nothing  necessarily  depends  on  the  Subject,"  88. 

» 

XV.  SELECTIONS  FROM  THE  EARLIER  ELIZABETHAN  CRITICS  89-106 
WILSON  against  Inkhorn  Terms,  89.  GASCOIGNE,  Notes  on 
Verse  Making,  90.  SIDNEY,  Apology  for  Poetry :  The  Antiqu- 
ity and  Nobility  of  Poetry,  92  ;  Sacred  Poetry,  94  ;  Lyric,  95 ; 
English  Poetry  and  Drama,  96.  PUTTENHAM  (?),  A  Sur- 
vey of  English  Poetry,  100.  WEBBE,  Spenser,  104 ;  Against 
Rhyme,  106. 

XVI.   BEN  JONSON.     DISCOVERIES 107-135 

Eloquentia,  107.  Censura  de  Poetis  (cum  seq.),  108.  De 
Shakespeare  Nostrat.,  109.  Ingeniorum  Discrimina,  110. 
Dominus  Verulamius ;  Scriptorum  Catalogus  (cum  seq.),  111. 
Poesis  et  Pictura,  114.  De  Stilo;  Prsecipiendi  Modi,  114. 
Consuetude  (cum  seq.),  119.  De  Stilo,  120.  Poeta,  etc.,  123. 
Comedy  and  Tragedy,  130.  The  Fable,  131. 


CONTENTS  ix 

PAGES 

XVII.    SELECTIONS  FROM  THE  SPANISH  CRITICS  OF  THE  SEV- 
ENTEENTH CENTURY 136-138 

TIRSO  DE  MOLINA,  The  Liberty  of  Drama,  136.  ALFONSO 
SANCHEZ  (?),  The  Real  "Rule,"  137.  PINCIANO,  Universality 
of  Poetry,  137.  GONZALES  DE  SALAS  on  the  Liberty  of 
Poetry,  138. 

XVIII.    SELECTIONS    FROM    THE    FRENCH    CRITICS   OF    THE 

SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY       139-142 

BOILEAU,  Passages  from  VArt  Poetique —  "  Good  Sense,"  139. 
RAPIN,  Reflexions  sur  la  Pottique,  140.  LE  Bossu,  Traitt  du 
Poeme  iZpique,  141. 

XIX.   DRYDEN 143-172 

Rhyme  and  Blank  Verse,  143.  From  the  Essay  of  Dramatic 
Poesy  :  Two  Bad  Poets,  146  ;  The  Advantages  of  Tragicomedy 
or  Mingled  Plot,  148 ;  The  Absurdity  of  the  Strict  Unities  of 
Time  and  Place,  149 ;  The  Characters  of  Shakespeare, 
Fletcher,  and  Jonson,  151.  Defence  of  the  Essay:  Revised 
Defence  of  Rhyme  against  Sir  Robert  Howard,  153.  "The 
Story  is  the  Least  Part,"  156.  Shakespeare  and  Fletcher,  157. 
Remarks  on  Rymer,  157.  The  Via  Media  of  Translation,  158. 
Good-bye  to  Rant,  161.  Criticastry,  163.  Dryden's  Outfit  in 
Criticism,  164.  His  Masters  in  Prosody,  165.  Chaucer,  165. 

XX.    BYSSHE'S  "  ART  OF  POETRY" 173-176 

XXI.    ADDISON 177-200 

True  and  False  Wit,  177.  Remarks  on  Milton  :  His  Diction, 
183;  His  Fable,  etc.,  and  Language  Again,  188;  Summary, 
194.  The  Pleasures  of  the  Imagination :  Definition,  195 ;  The 
Fairy  Way  of  Writing,  198. 

XXII.   POPE 201-225 

Selections  from  the  Essay  on  Criticism,  201.  From  the  Epistle 
to  Augustus,  217. 

XXIII.   JOHNSON 226-254 

From  The  Rambler.  The  Seamy  Side  of  Criticism,  226. 
Selections  from  Criticisms  on  Milton :  Heroic  Verse,  227 ; 
"Elisions,"  230;  Milton's  Pauses,  232;  The  Responsibilities 
of  the  Critic,  237.  Criticism  of  Spenser,  240.  Of  Tragi- 
comedy and  "Judging  by  the  Event,"  241.  "  Meanness"  in 
Shakespeare,  245. 

From  the  Preface  to  Shakespeare,  246.  The  Character  of 
Polonius,  253.  "The  Streaks  of  the  Tulip,"  from  Rasse- 
las,  254. 


x  CONTENTS 

PAGES 

XXIV.   SELECTIONS  FROM  THE  PRECURSORS  OF  ROMANTI- 
CISM IN  ENGLAND 255-258 

SHENSTONE,  255.     GRAY,  256.     KURD,  257. 

XXV.    SELECTIONS   FROM   THE   GERMAN  CRITICS  OF   THE 

EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 259-261 

GOTTSCHED,  The  Outer  and  Narrower  Rule,  259.  GELLERT, 
Compromise  as  to  the  Rule,  260.  LESSING,  The  Inner  and 
Larger  Rule:  The  Anarchists  and  the  True  "Rule,"  260; 
"For  Thoughts,"  261. 

XXVI.    WORDSWORTH  ON  POETRY  AND  POETIC  DICTION.     .     262-302 
Preface  to  Second  Edition  of  Lyrical  Ballads,  262.    Appendix 
to  Preface,   285.     From  Essay  Supplementary  to   Preface: 
Poetic  Criticism,  289 ;  Popular  Judgment,  295.    From  Preface 
to  Edition  of  1815  :  The  Requirements  of  the  Poet,  301. 

XXVII.  COLERIDGE  ON  WORDSWORTH  AND  POETRY  .  .  .  303-365 
Biographia  Literaria.  The  Lyrical  Ballads  —  Philosophic 
Definitions  of  a  Poem  and  Poetry,  303.  "Real"  and 
"Rustic"  Life  —  Theories  of  Diction,  310.  Metrical  Com- 
position Essentially  Different  from  that  of  Prose,  321.  Words- 
worth's Real  Object,  342.  Remarks  on  the  Present  Mode  of 
Conducting  Critical  Journals,  345.  Wordsworth's  Poetry, 
Its  Defects  and  Beauties  —  The  Former  for  the  Most  Part 
Characteristic  of  His  Theory  Only,  354. 

XXVIII.    HAZLITT 366-395 

On  Criticism  [in  General],  366.  On  Poetry  in  General,  377. 
Pope  and  Crabbe,  394. 

XXIX.    SHELLEY.     DEFENCE  OF  POETRY 396-409 

XXX.   SAINTE-BEUVE  AND  VICTOR  HUGO 410-419 

SAINTE-BEUVE.  Dogmatic  and  Undogmatic  Criticism,  410. 
The  "  Old  Moons  "  of  Criticism,  412.  The  Elusiveness  of  the 
"  Classical "  Quality,  413.  Criticism  According  to  Standard, 
414.  The .  Criticism  of  Research,  415.  The  Criticism  of 
M.  Taine,  417. 
VICTOR  HUGO,  The  Magna  Charta  of  Poetry,  418. 

XXXI.    MATTHEW  ARNOLD.     PREFACE    TO  POEMS  (1853- 

1854) 420-435 

INDEX  OF  BOOKS  AND  AUTHORS      .     .     .  437 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 

A  connected  commentary  on  these  passages,  and  on  much  else,  will  be 
found  in  the  editor's  above-mentioned  History  of  Criticism  (vol.  i,  Edin- 
burgh and  London  1900;  vol.  ii,  1902),  with  full  references  to  other 
authorities  on  the  whole  subject;  the  following  list  is  confined  to  critical 
editions  of  the  actual  works  excerpted,  where  the  contexts  may  be  sought, 
and  further  elucidation  obtained,  by  those  who  have  interest  and  time. 

ARISTOTLE,  Poetics. 

Butcher,   S.   H.,  Aristotle's    Theory   of  Poetry   and   Fine   Art,   Third 

Edition,  London  1902. 
Rhetoric. 

(Greek  only  in  text,  but  with  a  practically  complete  translation  in 
notes)  Cope,  E.  M.,  3  vols.,  Cambridge   1878  (with  a  fourth  but 
earlier  volume  of  Introduction,  ibid.  1868). 
(English  only)  Welldon,  J.  E.  C.,  London  1886. 
DIONYSIUS  OF  HALICARNASSUS. 

Rhetorical  Works,  (Greek)  ed.  Reiske,  vols.  5  and  6,  Leipsic  1775. 
Three  Literary  Letters,  (Greek  and  English)  Roberts,  W.  R.,  Cam- 
bridge 1901. 
LONGINUS,  On  the  Sublime. 

(Greek  and  English)  Roberts,  W.  R.,  Cambridge  1899. 
(English  only)  Havell,  H.  R.,  London  1890. 
QUINTILIAN,  Institutes  of  Oratory. 
(Latin)  Leipsic  1820. 

(English)  Watson,  J.  (Bohn's  Classical  Library). 
DANTE,  De  Vulgari  Eloquio  \_Eloquentia~]. 

(Latin)  Rajna,  P.,  Florence  1896,  or  Moore,  E.,  in  Dante's   Works, 

Oxford  1897. 

(English)  Ferrers-Howell,  H.  C.,  London  1890. 

In  all  cases  of  doubtful  reading  Dr.  Prompt's  facsimile  of  the  Grenoble 
MS.  (Venice  1892)  has  been  compared. 

It  has  not  seemed  necessary  to  indicate  editions,  etc.,  of  the  authors 
from  whom  the  shorter  passages  are  taken,  or  of  modern  works.  Such 
indications,  if  wanted,  will  be  found  in  the  History  of  Criticism  above 
cited.  For  an  almost  complete  bibliography  of  critical  literature,  see 
Gayley  and  Scott,  Literary  Criticism,  Boston  1899. 


LOCI   CRITICI 

i 

AKISTOTLE  (384^322  B.C.) 

1.     THE  POETICS 

(This  book,  which  is  incomplete,  deals  very  fully  with  Tragedy,  slightly 
with  Epic,  and  scarcely  at  all  with  other  literary  kinds.) 

CHAPTER   I.— THE   NATURE    AND   KINDS   OF   POETRY 

My  design  is  to  treat  of  Poetry  in  general,  and  of  its  several 
species  ;  to  enquire  what  is  the  proper  power1  of  each  —  what  con- 
struction of  plot  is  essential  to  a  good  Poem  —  of  what,  and  how 
many,  parts  each  species  consists ;  with  whatever  else  belongs 
to  the  same  enquiry :  which  I  shall  consider,  beginning  at  the 
beginning,  in  the  order  of  nature. 

Epic  poetry,  tragedy,  comedy,  dithyrambics,  as  also,  for  the 
most  part,  the  music  of  the  flute  and  of  the  lyre  —  all  these  are, 
in  the  most  general  view  of  them,  imitations;  differing,  however, 
from  each  other  in  three  respects,  according  to  the  different  means, 
the  different  objects,  or  the  different  manner  of  their  imitation. 

For,  as  men,  some  through  art  and  some  through  habit,  imitate 
various  objects  by  means  of  colour  and  figure,  and  others,  again,  by 
voice ;  so,  with  respect  to  the  arts  above  mentioned,  Rhythm, 
Words,  and  Melody  are  the  different  means  by  which,  either  single 
or  variously  combined,  they  all  produce  their  imitation. 

1  Twining,  "effect";  Professor  Butcher,  "essential  quality."  (In  future 
notes  these  translators  will  be  indicated  by  the  letters  T.  and  B.)  Perhaps 
8vva.fj.iv  here  would  be  best  rendered  by  "virtue." 

1 


2  THE   POETICS 

For  example,  in  the  imitations  of  the  flute  and  the  lyre,  and 
of  any  other  instruments  capable  of  producing  a  similar  effect  — 
as  the  syrinx,  or  pipe  —  melody  and  rhythm  only  are  employed. 
In  those  of  dance,  rhythm  alone,  without  melody;  for  dancers, 
by  rhythm  applied  to  gesture,  express  manners,  passions,  and 
actions. 

The  art  which  imitates  by  words  alone,  either  prose  or  verse  — 
the  latter  being  either  composed  of  various  metres,  or  confined, 
according  to  the  practice  hitherto  established,  to  a  single  species  — 
is  hitherto  nameless.1  For  we  have  no  general  name  which  would 
comprehend  the  mimes  of  Sophron  and  Xenarchus  and  the  Socratic 
dialogues ;  or  poems  in  iambic,  elegiac,  or  other  metres,  in  which 
the  epic  species  of  imitation  may  be  conveyed.  Custom,  indeed, 
connecting  the  poetry  or  making  with  the  metre,  has  denominated 
some  elegiac  poets,  i.e.,  makers  of  elegiac  verse  ;  others,  epic  poets, 
i.e.,  makers  of  hexameter  verse ;  thus  distinguishing  poets,  not 
according  to  the  nature  of  their  imitation,  but  according  to  their 
common  use  of  metre.  For  even  they  who  compose  treatises  of 
medicine  or  natural  philosophy  in  verse  are  denominated  poets  : 
yet  Homer  and  Empedocles  have  nothing  in  common,  except 
their  metre ;  the  former,  therefore,  justly  merits  the  name  of 
poet,  while  the  other  should  rather  be  called  a  physiologist2 
than  a  poet. 

So,  also,  though  any  one  should  choose  to  convey  his  imitation 
in  every  kind  of  metre  promiscuously,  as  Chaeremon  has  done  in 
his  Centaur,  which  is  a  medley  of  all  sorts  of  verse,  we  must  call 
him  a  poet.  —  But  of  these  distinctions  enough. 

There  are,  again,  other  species  of  poetry  which  make  use  of  all 
the  means  of  imitation, — rhythm,  melody,  and  verse.  Such  are  the 
dithyrambic,  pastoral,  tragedy,  and  comedy:  with  this  difference, 

1  Here  comes  in  the  first  important  difference  of  text  and  translation.     The 
older  texts,  which  Twining  followed,  generally  read  tiroiroda.  at  the  beginning  of 
the  sentence,  and  it  was  doubted  whether  Xifyotj  ^1X0?$  could  mean  "prose" 
or  whether  it  meant  "uncouth"  verses.     The  addition  of  di>uvv/M>s,  from  the 
old  Arabic  version,  completely  changes,  and  seems  beyond  doubt  to  establish, 
the  sense. 

2  In  the  Greek  sense  :  "physicist "  rather,  according  to  the  arbitrary  modern 
limitation  of  "physiology." 


THE  NATURE  AND  KINDS  OF  POETRY        3 

however,  that  in  some  of  these  they  are  employed  all  together,  in 
others  separately.  And  such  are  the  differences  of  these  arts  with 
respect  to  the  means  by  which  they  imitate. 

Chaps.  II-V  contain  remarks  in  more  detail  on  the  subject  of  Chap.  I, 
which  may  be  thus  summarized  :  Imitation  may  be  either  of  the  actual,  or, 
as  in  the  case  of  tragedy,  of  something  better  than  the  actual,  or,  as  in  the 
case  of  comedy,  of  something  worse.  It  may  also  differ  as  to  its  manner: 
adopting  narration  or  action  or  a  mixture  of  the  two.  The  delight  in  it 
is  congenital ;  and  the  pursuing  of  this  delight  has  led  to  the  discovery  of 
the  various  kinds  of  poetry,  and  of  the  various  kinds  of  verse  appropriated 
to  them.  Iambic  is  best  suited  to  drama,  because  it  is  the  most  conversa- 
tional metre.  Comedy  is  inferior  to  tragedy  in  subject,  and  also  in  age. 
Epic  is  not  inferior  in  subject,  but  differs  from  it  in  uniformity  of  metre, 
and  in  the  fact  that  tragedy,  as  a  rule,  does  not  go  much  beyond  a  day's 
time,  while  epic  is  unlimited.  As  for  the  parts,  all  those  of  epic  are  found 
in  tragedy :  not  all  those  of  tragedy  in  epic.  The  important  textual  passages 
of  these  chapters  are  the  following : 

THE  ORIGIN  OF  POETRY 

Poetry,  in  general,  seems  to  have  derived  its  origin  from  two 
causes,  each  of  them  natural. 

1.  To  imitate  is  instinctive  in  man  from  his  infancy.  By  this 
he  is  distinguished  from  other  animals,  that  he  is  of  all  the  most 
imitative,  and  through  this  instinct  receives  his  earliest  education. 
All  men  likewise  naturally  receive  pleasure  from  imitation.  This  is 
evident  from  actual  experience  :  for  we  contemplate  with  pleasure, 
'and  with  the  more  pleasure  the  more  exactly  they  are  imitated, 
such  objects  as,  if  real,  we  could  not  see  without  pain;  as  the 
figures  of  the  meanest  and  most  disgusting  animals,  dead  bodies, 
and  the  like.  And  the  reason  of  this  is,  that  to  learn  is  a  natural 
pleasure,  not  confined  to  philosophers,  but  common  to  all  men ; 
with  this  difference  only,  that  the  multitude  partake  of  it  in  a  more 
transient  and  compendious  manner.  Hence  the  pleasure  they  receive 
from  a  picture :  in  viewing  they  learn,  they  infer,  they  discover, 
what  every  object  is ;  that  this,  for  instance,  is  such  a  particular 
man,  etc.  For  if  we  suppose  the  object  represented  to  be  some- 
thing which  the  spectator  had  never  seen,  his  pleasure,  in  that 


4  THE  POETICS 

case,  will  not  arise  from  the  imitation,  but  from  the  workmanship, 
the  colours,  or  some  such  cause. 

2.  Imitation,  then,  being  thus  natural  to  us,  and,  secondly, 
Melody  and  Rhythm  being  also  natural  (for  as  to  metre,  it  is 
plainly  a  species1  of  rhythm),  those  persons  in  whom  originally 
these  propensities  were  the  strongest  were  naturally  led  to  rude 
and  extemporaneous  attempts,  which,  gradually  improved,  gave 
birth  to  Poetry. 

COMEDY 

Comedy,  as  was  said  before,  is  an  imitation  of  characters  inferior, 
not  with  respect  to  every  sort  of  vice,  but  to  the  ridiculous  only, 
as  being  a  subdivision  of  turpitude  or  deformity,  since  it  may  be 
defined  to  be  a  fault  or  deformity  of  such  a  sort  as  is  neither 
painful  nor  destructive.  A  grotesque  mask,2  for  example,  is  some- 
thing ugly  and  distorted,  but  not  from  pain. 

The  successive  improvements  of  Tragedy,  and  the  respective 
authors  of  them,  have  not  escaped  our  knowledge ;  but  those  of 
Comedy,  from  the  little  attention  that  was  paid  to  it  in  its  origin,8 
remain  in  obscurity.  For  it  was  not  till  late  that  Comedy  was 
authorized  by  the  magistrate,  and  carried  on  at  the  public  expense  ; 
it  was  at  first  a  private  and  voluntary  exhibition. 

EPIC  AND  TRAGEDY 

Epic  poetry  agrees  so  far  with  Tragic  as  it  is  an  imitation  of 
great  characters  and  actions  by  means  of  verse 4 ;  but  in  this  it 
differs,  that  it  makes  use  of  only  one  kind  of  metre  throughout, 
and  that  it  is  narrative.  It  also  differs  in  length ;  for  Tragedy 
endeavours,  as  far  as  possible,  to  confine  its  action  within  the  limits 

1  So  T. ;  B. ,  better,  ' '  sections. ' '    Even  this  does  not  perhaps  fully  explain  fiApia, 
"limbs,"  "organized  parts."     The  relation  of  "rhythm" — the  general  mass 
out  of  which  the  more  definitely  organized  metre  is  taken  —  is  referred  to  infra. 

2  T.,  "face,"  no  doubt  wrongly.     B.  takes  it  of  the  actual  comic  mask  of 
the  stage. 

3  B.,  "  because  it  was  not  taken  seriously." 

4  T.,  "  words,"  the  original  text  being  doubtful.     The  version  adopted  above 
seems  to  give  the  best  and  most  probable  sense  ;  but  it  may  have  been  "  words 
in  verse." 


DEFINITION  AND  CONSTITUTION  OF  TRAGEDY  5 

of  a  single  revolution  of  the  sun,  or  nearly  so  ;  but  the  time  of 
Epic  action  is  indefinite.  This,  however,  at  first,  was  equally  the 
case  with  Tragedy  itself. 

Of  their  constituent  parts,  some  are  common  to  both,  some  peculiar 
to  Tragedy.  He,  therefore,  who  knows  about  good  and  bad  Tragedy 
knows  also  about  Epic.;  for  all  the  parts  of  the  Epic  poem  are  to 
be  found  in  Tragedy ;  not  all  those  of  Tragedy  in  the  Epic  poem. 


CHAPTER    VI.  —  THE    DEFINITION    AND   CONSTITUTION   OF 

TRAGEDY 

Of  the  species  of  poetry  which  imitates  in  hexameters,  and  of 
comedy,  we  shall  speak  hereafter.  Let  us  now  consider  Tragedy, 
collecting  first,  from  what  has  been  already  said,  its  true  and 
essential  definition. 

TRAGEDY,  THEN,  is  AX   IMITATION   OF   SOME   ACTION   THAT   is 

SERIOUS,      ENTIRE,      AND      OF      SOME      MAGNITUDE BY      LANGUAGE, 

EMBELLISHED    AND     RENDERED     PLEASURABLE,    BUT    BY     DIFFERENT 

MEANS    IN    DIFFERENT    PARTS IN    THE    WAY,    NOT    OF    NARRATION, 

BUT     OF     ACTION,     EFFECTING      THROUGH     PITY     AND      TERROR     THE 
CORRECTION    AND    REFINEMENT    OF    SUCH1    PASSIONS. 

By  pleasurable  language  I  mean  a  language  that  has  the  embel- 
lishments of  rhythm,  melody,  and  metre.  And  I  add,  by  different 
means  in  different  parts,  because  in  some  parts  metre  alone  is 
employed  —  in  others,  melody. 

Now,  as  Tragedy  imitates  by  acting,  the  Decoration,  in  the  first 
place,  must  necessarily  be  one  of  its  parts ;  then  the  melopceia,  or 
Music,  and  the  Diction ;  for  these  last  include  the  means  of  tragic 
imitation.  By  Diction,  I  mean  the  metrical  composition.  The 
meaning  of  melopceia  is  obvious  to  every  one. 

Again :  Tragedy  being  an  imitation  of  an  action,  and  the  persons 
employed  in  that  action  being  necessarily  characterized  by  their  Char- 
acter and  Thought  (since  it  is  from  these  that  actions  themselves 
derive  their  character),  it  follows  that  there  must  also  be  Character 

1  B.  prefers  to  give  T&V  TOIQVTWV  the  restricted  sense,  which  it  undoubtedly 
sometimes  has,  of  "these." 


6  THE  POETICS 

and  Thought  as  the  two  causes  of  actions,  and,  consequently,  of  all 
success  or  ill  success.1  The  imitation  of  the  action  is  the  Plot2; 
for  by  Plot  I  now  mean  the  contexture  of  incidents.  By  Character 
I  mean  whatever  marks  the  characters  of  the  persons ;  by  Thought 
whatever  they  say,  whether  proving  anything  or  delivering  a 
general  sentiment,  etc. 

Hence,  all  Tragedy  must  necessarily  contain  six  parts,  which, 
together,  constitute  its  peculiar  character,  or  quality  —  Fable,  Char- 
acter, Diction,  Thought,  Decoration,  and  Music.  Of  these  parts, 
two  relate  to  the  means,  one  to  the  manner,  and  three  to  the  object 
of  imitation.  And  these  are  all.  These  specific  parts,  if  we  may 
so  call  them,  have  been  employed  by  most  poets,  and  are  all  to  be 
found  in  almost  every  tragedy. 

But  of  all  these  parts  the  most  important  is  the  combination  of 
incidents.  Because  Tragedy  is  an  imitation,  not  of  men,  but  of 
Action  —  of  life,  of  happiness  ;  for  unhappiness  consists  in  Action, 
and  the  very  end  [of  life]  is  Action  of  a  certain  kind,  not  quality.3 
Now,  men's  Character  constitutes  their  quality ;  but  it  is  by  their 
actions  that  they  are  happy,  or  the  contrary.  Tragedy,  therefore, 
does  not  imitate  Action  for  the  sake  of  imitating  Character,  but  in 
the  imitation  of  Action  that  of  Character  is  of  course  involved ;  so 
that  the  Action  and  the  Plot  are  the  end  of  Tragedy ;  and  the  end 
is  of  principal  importance. 

Again :  Tragedy  cannot  subsist  without  Action ;  without  Character 
it  may.  The  tragedies  of  most  modern  poets  have  this  defect 4  — 

1  T.,  much  more  widely  and  less  aptly,  "of  the  happiness  or  unhappiness  of 
all  men." 

2T.,  in  accordance  with  the  habit,  still  not  quite  disused,  of  the  17th  and 
18th  centuries,  "Fable";  and  for  " Character,"  "Manners."  "Sentiments," 
his  equivalent  for  "Thought,"  has  not  the  same  excuse  of  at  least  literal  fidelity 
to  the  Greek.  But  Sidvoia  is  a  difficult  word  to  translate,  and  even  "  Thought " 
is  not  quite  satisfactory. 

8  The  meaning  is  quite  clear,  but  the  text  is  confused,  there  being  no 
apparent  reason  why  "happiness"  should  appear  alone  in  the  first  clause,  and 
"unhappiness"  in  the  second.  One  way  is  to  repeat  each:  the  other  (now 
preferred),  to  turn  them  out  altogether,  repeat  "of  life"  as  bracketed  above, 
and  make  it  run  simply  "  of  action,  of  life ;  and  life  consists  in  action,  and  its 
end,  etc." 

*  i.e.,  of  not  giving  character. 


DEFINITION  AND  CONSTITUTION  OF  TRAGEDY  7 

a  defect  common,  indeed,  among  poets  in  general.  As  among  painters 
also,  this  is  the  case  with  Zeuxis,  compared  with  Polygnotus ;  the 
latter  excels  in  the  expression  of  Character.  There  is  no  such 
expression  in  the  pictures  of  Zeuxis. 

Further :  suppose  any  one  to  string  together  a  number  of  speeches 
in  which  Character  is  strongly  marked,  the  Language  and  the  Senti- 
ments well  turned  —  this  will  not  be  sufficient  to  produce  the 
proper  effect  of  Tragedy ;  that  end  will  much  rather  be  answered 
by  a  piece  defective  in  each  of  those  particulars,  but  furnished  with 
a  proper  Plot  and  contexture  of  incidents.  Add  to  this,  that  those 
parts  of  Tragedy  by  means  of  which  it  becomes  most  interesting  and 
affecting  are  parts  of  the  Plot :  I  mean  Kevolutions  and  Discoveries.1 
As  a  further  proof,  adventurers  in  tragic  writing  are  sooner  able  to 
arrive  at  excellence  in  the  language  and  the  manners  than  in  the 
construction  of  a  plot,  as  appears  from  almost  all  our  earlier  poets. 

The  Plot,  then,  is  the  principal  part  —  the  soul,  as  it  were  —  of 
tragedy,  and  Character  is  the  next  in  rank.  For  Tragedy  is  an 
imitation  of  an  Action,  and  through  that  principally  of  the  agents. 
Just  as  in  painting,  the  most  brilliant  colours,  spread  at  random  and 
without  design,  will  give  far  less  pleasure  than  the  simplest  outline 
of  a  figure.2 

In  the  third  place  stands  Thought.  To  this  part  it  belongs  to 
say  such  things  as  are  true  and  proper,  which  in  the  dialogue 3 
depends  on  the  political  and  rhetorical  arts ;  for  the  ancients  made 
their  characters  speak  in  the  style  of  political  and  popular  elo- 
quence, but  now  the  rhetorical  manner  prevails. 

Character  is  whatever  manifests  the  disposition  of  the  speaker. 
There  are  speeches,  therefore,  which  are  without  manners  or  char- 
acter, as  not  containing  anything  by  which  the  propensities  or  avers- 
ions of  the  person  who  delivers  them  can  be  known.4  Thought 

1  B.,  "  Reversal "  and  "  Recognition."     These  are  perhaps  better,  but  the  old 
words  have  become  part  of  the  accepted  language  of  criticism. 

2  The  great  Italian  commentator  and  critic,  Castelvetro,  transposed  this  sent- 
ence back  so  as  to  come  after  "contexture  of  incidents." 

8  B.,  "in  the  case  of  oratory."  This  is  certainly  more  in  the  usual  sense  of 
the  Greek  M  rdv  \6ywv :  but  the  older  rendering  seems  to  suit  the  context 
rather  better. 

4  The  text  is  rather  uncertain  here. 


8  THE  POETICS 

comprehends  whatever  is  said,  whether  proving  anything  affirm- 
atively or  negatively,  or  expressing  some  general  reflection,  etc. 

Fourth  in  order  is  the  Diction  —  that  is,  as  I  have  already  said, 
the  expression  of  the  sentiments  by  words,  the  power  and  effect  of 
which  is  the  same,  whether  in  verse  or  prose. 

Of  the  remaining  parts  the  Music  is  the  greatest  embellishment. 
The  Decoration  has  also  a  great  effect  on  the  soul,  but,  of  all  the 
parts,  is  most  foreign  to  art  and  least  germane  to  poetry ;  for  the 
power  of  tragedy  is  felt  without  representation  and  actors,  and 
the  production  of  the  decorations  depends  more  on  the  art  of  the 
mechanic  than  on  that  of  the  poet. 

CHAPTERS   VII-XIIL— THE   PLOT:  ITS   NATURE   AND 
CHARACTER 

VII.  1-5 

These  things  being  thus  defined,  let  us  go  on  to  examine  in  what 
manner  the  Plot  should  be  constructed,  since  this  is  the  first  and 
most  important  part  of  tragedy. 

Now,  we  have  defined  tragedy  to  be  an  imitation  of  an  action  that 
is  complete  and  entire,  and  that  has  also  a  certain  magnitude ;  for  a 
thing  may  be  entire  and  a  whole,  and  yet  not  be  of  any  magnitude. 

(1)  BY  ENTIRE  i  MEAN  THAT  WHICH  HAS  A  BEGINNING,  A  MIDDLE, 
AND  AN  END.    A  beginning  is  that  which  does  not  necessarily  suppose 
anything  before  it,  but  which  requires  something  to  follow  it.     An 
end,  on  the  contrary,  is  that  which  supposes  something  to  precede 
it,  either  necessarily  or  probably,  but  which  nothing  is  required  to 
follow.     A  middle  is  that  which  both  supposes  something  to  pre- 
cede and  requires   something  to  follow.     A  properly  constructed 
plot,  therefore,    is  not  at   liberty  to   begin  or  end   anyhow,  but 
must  conform  to  these  definitions. 

(2)  Again :    whatever  is  beautiful,  whether  it  be  an  animal,1  or 
any  other  thing  composed  of  different  parts,  must  not  only  have 

1  There  is  a  very  important  difference  of  opinion  here  whether  the  Greek 
word  fvov  means  as  usual  "  an  animal  "  (or  rather,  "  living  organism  ")  or  else 
"  the  picture  of  such  an  organism."  The  discussion  of  this  question  lies  outside 
our  scope.  B.  adopts  the  "picture"  version. 


THE  PLOT:    ITS  NATURE  AND  CHARACTER  9 

those  parts  arranged  in  a  certain  manner,  but  must  also  be  of  a 
certain  Magnitude;  for  beauty  consists  in  magnitude  and  order. 
Hence  it  is  that  no  very  minute  animal  can  be  beautiful ;  for  the 
survey  of  it  is  confused,  being  made  in  a  nearly  indistinguishable 
time.  Neither,  on  the  contrary,  can  one  of  a  prodigious  size  be 
beautiful ;  because,  as  all  its  parts  cannot  be  seen  at  once,  the 
whole  (the  unity  of  object)  is  lost  to  the  spectator :  as  it  would  be, 
for  example,  if  he  were  surveying  an  animal  ten  thousand  stadia 
long.  As,  therefore,  in  bodies,  animal  and  other,  a  certain  magni- 
tude is  requisite,  but  that  magnitude  must  be  such  as  to  present  a 
whole  easily  comprehended  by  the  eye,  so  in  the  plot  a  certain 
length  is  requisite,  but  that  length  must  be  such  as  to  present  a 
whole  easily  comprehended  by  the  memory. 

The  rest  of  the  chapter  is  less  important,  dealing  with  the  length  or 
size  of  the  fable  or  plot  from  special  points  of  view. 

VIII,  WHOLE.     THE  UNITY  OF  ACTION 

A  plot  is  not  One,  as  some  conceive  it  to  be,  merely  because  the 
hero  of  it  is  one.  For  numberless  events  happen  to  one  man,  many 
of  which  are  such  as  cannot  be  connected  into  one  event ;  and  so, 
likewise,  there  are  many  actions  of  one  man  which  cannot  be  con- 
nected into  any  one  action.  Hence  appears  the  mistake  of  ^,11  those 
poets  who  have  composed  "  Herculeids,"  "  Theseids,"  and  other 
poems  of  that  kind.  They  conclude  that  because  Hercules  was 
one,  so  also  must  be  the  plot  of  which  he  is  the  subject.  But 
Homer,  among  his  many  other  excellences,  seems  also  to  have  been 
perfectly  aware  of  this  mistake,  either  from  art  or  genius.  For 
when  he  composed  his  Odyssey,  he  did  not  introduce  all  the 
events  of  his  hero's  life  —  such,  for  instance,  as  the  wound  he 
received  upon  Parnassus;  his  feigned  madness  when  the  Grecian 
army  was  assembling,  etc.  —  events  not  connected,  either  by  neces- 
sary or  probable  consequence,  with  each  other  :  but  he  comprehended 
those  only  which  have  relation  to  one  action :  for  such  we  call  that 
of  the  Odyssey.  And  in  the  same  manner  he  composed  his  Iliad. 

As,  therefore,  in  other  mimetic  arts,  one  imitation  is  an  imitation 
of  one  thing,  so  here  the  plot,  being  an  imitation  of  an  action, 


10  THE   POETICS 

should  be  an  imitation  of  an  action  that  is  one  and  entire,  the  parts 
of  it  being  so  connected,  that  if  any  one  of  them  be  either  trans- 
posed or  taken  away,  the  whole  will  be  destroyed  or  changed.  For 
whatever  may  be  either  retained  or  omitted,  without  making  any 
sensible  difference,  is  not  part  of  a  whole. 

IX.  1-9 

It  appears,  further,  from  what  has  been  said,  that  it  is  not  the 
Poet's  province  to  relate  such  things  as  have  actually  happened, 
but  such  as  might  have  happened  —  such  as  are  possible,  according 
either  to  probable  or  necessary  consequence. 

For  it  is  not  by  writing  in  verse  or  prose  that  the  Historian  and 
the  Poet  are  distinguished ;  the  work  of  Herodotus  might  be  versi- 
fied, but  it  would  still  be  a  species  of  history,  no  less  with  metre 
than  without.  They  are  distinguished  by  this  —  that  the  one  relates 
what  has  been,  the  other  what  might  be.  On  this  account  POETRY 

IS     A     MORE     PHILOSOPHICAL     AND     A     MORE     SERIOUS     THING     THAN 

HISTORY  :  FOR  POETRY  is  CHIEFLY  CONVERSANT  ABOUT  GENERAL  1 
TRUTH,  HISTORY  ABOUT  PARTICULAR.  Li  what  manner,  for  example, 
any  person  of  a  certain  character  would  speak  or  act,  probably  or 
necessarily  —  this  is  general ;  and  this  is  the  object  of  Poetry, 
even  while  it  makes  use  of  particular  names.  But  what  Alcibiades 
did,  or  what  happened  to  him  —  this  is  particular  truth. 

With  respect  to  Comedy,  this  is  now  become  obvious ;  for  here 
the  poet,  when  he  has  formed  his  plot  of  probable  incidents,  gives 
to  his  characters  whatever  names  he  pleases,  and  is  not,  like  the 
iambic  poets,  particular  and  personal. 

Tragedy,  indeed,  retains  the  use  of  real  names ;  and  the  reason 
is,  that  what  we  are  disposed  to  believe  we  must  think  possible. 
Now,  what  has  never  actually  happened  we  are  not  apt  to  regard  as 
possible ;  but  what  has  been  is  unquestionably  so,  or  it  could  not 
have  been  at  all.  There  are,  however,  some  tragedies  in  which  one 

1  B.,  "  universal,"  which  is  far  better  in  itself,  and  would  be  better  altogether, 
if  "general "  had  not  been  the  general  rendering  and  had  not  exercised  a  great 
—  and  positively  disastrous  —  historical  influence.  It  was  on  this  that  18th 
century  critics  based  their  doctrine  that  poetry  must  be  "  general,"  under- 
standing the  word  not  as  equivalent  to  "  universal "  but  to  "conventional." 


THE  TRAGIC   'AMAPTIA  OR  FRAILTY  11 

or  two  of  the  names  are  historical,  and  the  rest  feigned.  There 
are  even  some  in  which  none  of  the  names  are  historical  —  such  is 
Agathon's  The  Flower ;  for  in  that  all  is  invention,  both  incidents 
and  names,  and  yet  it  pleases.  It  is  by  no  means,  therefore, 
essential  that  a  poet  should  confine  himself  to  the  known  and  estab- 
lished subjects  of  tragedy.  Such  a  restraint  would,  indeed,  be 
ridiculous,  since  even  those  subjects  that  are  known  are  known 
comparatively  but  to  few,  and  yet  are  interesting  to  all. 

From  all  this  it  is  manifest  that  a  Poet  should  be  a  poet,  or 
Maker,  of  plots  rather  than  of  verses,  since  it  is  imitation  that  con- 
stitutes the  poet,  and  of  this  imitation  actions  are  the  object.  Nor 
is  he  the  less  a  poet  though  the  incidents  of  his  fable  should  chance 
to  be  such  as  have  actually  happened ;  for  nothing  hinders,  but 
that  some  true  events  may  possess  that  probability  and  possibility, 
the  invention  of  which  entitles  him  to  the  name  of  poet. 

This  chapter  is  completed  by  remarks  on  episodic  plots  (which  are 
condemned),  etc.  X  divides  plots  into  "  simple,"  i.e.,  without  revolution 
or  discovery,  and  "  complex,"  with  one  or  both.  XI  defines  and  illustrates 
these  things.  XII  is  a  probably  spurious,  and  at  any  rate  purely  technical, 
list  of  the  names  given  to  the  divisions  of  the  tragedy.  Then  follow  three 
chapters  which  are  the  very  kernel  or,  if  another  metaphor  be  preferred, 
cream  of  the  whole. 


CHAPTER   XIII.  —  THE   TRAGIC   'AMAPTIA   OR  FRAILTY 

The  order  of  the  subject  leads  us  to  consider,  in  the  next  place, 
what  the  poet  should  aim  at,  and  what  avoid,  in  the  construction  of 
his  plot ;  and  by  what  means  the  purpose  of  Tragedy  may  be  best 
effected. 

Now,  since  it  is  requisite  to  the  perfection  of  a  tragedy  that  its 
plot  should  be  of  the  complicated,  not  of  the  simple  kind,  and  that 
it  should  imitate  such  actions  as  excite  terror  and  pity  (this  being 
the  peculiar  property  of  the  tragic  imitation),  it  follows  evidently, 
in  the  first  place,  that  the  change  from  prosperity  to  adversity 
should  not  be  represented  as  happening  to  a  virtuous  character; 
for  this  raises  disgust  rather  than  terror  or  compassion.  Neither 


12  THE  POETICS 

should  the  contrary  change,  from  adversity  to  prosperity,  be  exhib- 
ited in  a  vicious  character :  this,  of  all  plans,  is  the  most  opposite 
to  the  genius  of  tragedy,  having  no  one  property  that  it  ought  to 
have ;  for  it  is  neither  gratifying  in  a  moral  view,  nor  affecting,  nor 
terrible.  Nor,  again,  should  the  fall  of  a  very  bad  man  from 
prosperous  to  adverse  fortune  be  represented  :  because,  though  such 
a  subject  may  be  pleasing  from  its  moral  tendency,  it  will  produce 
neither  pity  nor  terror.  For  our  pity  is  excited  by  misfortunes 
undeservedly  suffered,  and  our  terror  by  some  resemblance  between 
the  sufferer  and  ourselves.  Neither  of  these  effects  will,  therefore, 
be  produced  by  such  an  event. 

There  remains,  then,  for  our  choice,  the  character  between  these 
extremes :  THAT  OF  A  PERSON  NEITHER  EMINENTLY  VIRTUOUS  OR 

JUST,  NOR  YET  INVOLVED  IN  MISFORTUNE  BY  DELIBERATE  VICE  OR 
VILLAINY,  BUT  BY  SOME  ERROR  OF  HUMAN  FRAILTY1  ;  and  thlS  person 

should  also  be  some  one  of  high  fame  and  nourishing  prosperity.  For 
example,  (Edipus,  Thyestes,  or  other  illustrious  men  of  such  families. 

Hence  it  appears  that,  to  be  well  constructed,  a  plot,  contrary  to 
the  opinion  of  some,  should  be  single  rather  than  double  ;  that  the 
change  of  fortune  should  not  be  from  adverse  to  prosperous,  but  the 
reverse ;  and  that  it  should  be  the  consequence,  not  of  vice,  but  of 
some  great  frailty,  in  a  character  such  as  has  been  described,  or 
better  rather  than  worse. 

These  principles  are  confirmed  by  experience,  for  poets,  formerly, 
admitted  almost  any  story  into  the  number  of  tragic  subjects ;  but 
now  the  subjects  of  the  best  tragedies  are  confined  to  a  few  families 
—  to  Alcmaeon,  CEdipus,  Orestes,  Meleager,  Thyestes,  Telephus,  and 
others,  the  sufferers  or  the  authors  of  some  terrible  calamity. 

The  most  perfect  tragedy,  then,  according  to  the  principles  of 
the  art,  is  of  this  construction  :  whence  appears  the  mistake  of  those 

1  Si  d/j.apriai>  nvd.  It  is  in  this  plaQe  especially  important  to  refer  to  Pro- 
fessor Butcher's  exhaustive  examination  of  the  word  duaprta.,  op.  cit.  p.  311  sq. 
Generally  speaking,  it  means  in  A's  mouth  (1)  a  fault  through  avoidable,  but  more 
or  less  excusable,  ignorance  ;  (2)  one  incurred  through  passion,  etc.,  without 
deliberate  evil  purpose.  The  far-reaching  character  of  this  remark  has  been 
more  and  more  recognized.  There  is  greater  difference  of  opinion  whether,  in 
what  follows,  A.  does  or  does  not  lend  unlucky  countenance  to  the  "  neo-classic  " 
idea  that  the  tragic  hero  must  be  a  person  of  "rank  and  fashion." 


TERROR  AND  PITY  13 

critics  who  censure  Euripides  for  this  practice  in  his  tragedies,  many 
of  which  terminate  unhappily  ;  for  this,  as  we  have  shown,  is  right. 
And,  as  the  strongest  proof  of  it,  we  find  that  upon  the  stage  and 
in  the  dramatic  contests  such  tragedies,  if  they  succeed,1  have 
always  the  most  tragic  effect;  and  Euripides,  though  in  other 
respects  faulty  in  the  conduct  of  his  subjects,  seems  clearly  to  be 
the  most  tragic  of  the  poets. 

I  place  in  the  second  rank  that  kind  to  which  some  assign  the 
first:  that  which  is  of  a  double  construction,  like  the  Odyssey, 
and  also  ends  in  opposite  ways,  for  the  good  and  for  the  bad  char- 
acters. That  this  passes  for  the  best  is  owing  to  the  weakness  of 
the  spectators,  to  whose  wishes  the  poets  accommodate  their  produc- 
tions. This  kind  of  pleasure,  however,  is  not  the  proper  pleasure 
of  tragedy,  but  belongs  rather  to  comedy,  for  there,  if  even  the 
bitterest  enemies,  like  Orestes  and  jEgisthus,  are  introduced,  they 
quit  the  scene  at  last  as  friends,  and  nobody  is  killed. 

CHAPTER  XIV.  — TERROR  AND  PITY— THE  'OIKEIA  'HAONH 
OR   SPECIAL   PLEASURE 

Terror  and  pity  may  be  raised  by  the  Decoration ;  but  they  may 
also  arise  from  the  circumstances  of  the  action  itself,  which  is  far 
preferable  and  shows  a  superior  poet.  For  the  plot  should  be  so 
constructed,  that,  without  the  assistance  of  the  sight,  its  incidents 
may  excite  horror  and  commiseration  in  those  who  hear  them  only  ; 
as  would  be  the  case  with  one  hearing  the  story  of  the  (Edipus. 
But  to  produce  this  effect  by  means  of  the  decoration  is  less  artistic 
and  needs  more  "mounting."  As  to  those  poets  who  make  use 
of  the  decoration  in  order  to  produce,  not  the  terrible,  but  the 
monstrous  only,  their  purpose  has  nothing  in  common  with  that  of 
tragedy.  FOB  WE  ABE  NOT  TO  SEEK  FOB  EVEBY  SOBT  OF  PLEASUBE 

FBOM  TBAGEDY,  BUT  FOB  THAT  ONLY  WHICH  IS  PBOPEB  TO  THE 
SPECIES.2 

Since,  therefore,  it  is  the  business  of  the  tragic  poet  to  give  that 
pleasure  which  arises  from  pity  and  terror,  through  imitation,  it  is 

1  So  T. ;  B.,  better,  "if  they  are  well  represented." 

2  The  second  great  utterance  of  the  context. 


14  THE  POETICS 

evident  that  he  ought  to  produce  that  effect  by  the  circumstances 
of  the  action  itself.1  Let  us  then  see  of  what  kind  those  incidents 
are  which  appear  terrible  or  piteous. 

Now,  such  actions  must,  of  necessity,  happen  between  persons 
who  are  either  friends  or  enemies,  or  indifferent  to  each  other.  If 
an  enemy  kills,  or  purposes  to  kill,  an  enemy,  in  neither  case  is 
any  commiseration  raised  in  us  except  for  the  actual  suffering. 
The  case  is  the  same  when  the  persons  are  neither  friends  nor 
enemies.  But  when  such  disasters  happen  between  friends  —  when, 
for  instance,  the  brother  kills  or  is  going  to  kill  his  brother,  the 
son  his  father,  the  mother  her  son,  or  the  reverse  —  these,  and  others 
of  a  similar  kind,  are  the  proper  incidents  for  the  poet's  choice. 
The  received  tragic  subjects,  therefore,  he  is  not  at  liberty  essen- 
tially to  alter ;  as  of  Clytaemnestra  dying  by  the  hand  of  Orestes, 
and  Eriphyle  by  that  of  Alcmseon  ;  but  it  is  his  province  to  invent 
other  subjects,  and  to  make  a  skilful  use  of  those  which  he  finds 
already  established.  What  I  mean  by  a  skilful  use  I  proceed  to 
explain. 

The  tragic  action  may  be  perpetrated  knowingly  and  intention- 
ally, as  was  usual  with  the  earlier  poets,  and  as  Euripides,  also, 
has  represented  Medea  destroying  her  children.  It  may,  likewise, 
be  perpetrated  by  those  who  are  ignorant,  at  the  time,  of  the  con- 
nection between  them  and  the  injured  person,  which  they  after- 
wards discover ;  as  by  (Edipus,  in  Sophocles.  There,  indeed,  the 
action  itself  is  outside  the  drama:  the  Alcmceon  of  Astydamas, 
and  Telegonus  in  the  Ulysses  Wounded,  furnish  instances  within 
the  tragedy.  There  is  yet  a  third  way,  where  a  person  upon  the 
point  of  perpetrating,  through  ignorance,  some  dreadful  deed,  is 
prevented  by  a  sudden  discovery. 

Beside  these  there  is  no  other  way.  For  the  action  must  of 
necessity  be  either  done  or  not  done,  and  that  either  with  know- 
ledge or  without.  But  of  all  these  ways,  that  of  being  ready  to 
execute,  knowingly,  and  yet  not  executing,  is  the  worst ;  for  this  is, 
at  the  same  time,  shocking  and  yet  not  tragic,  because  it  exhibits 
no  disastrous  event.  It  is,  therefore,  never,  or  very  rarely,  made 

1  B.,  "  that  this  quality  must  be  impressed  upon  the  incidents."  So  better,  I 
think,  for  ^TTOI^T^OV. 


CHARACTER  15 

use  of.  The  threat  of  Hsemon  to  kill  Creon  in  the  Antigone  is 
an  example. 

Next  to  this  is  the  actual  execution  of  the  purpose.  To  execute, 
through  ignorance,  and  afterwards  to  discover,  is  better  :  for  thus 
there  is  nothing  shocking,  while  the  discovery  is  striking. 

But  the  best  of  all  these  ways  is  the  last.  Thus,  in  the 
tragedy  of  Cresphontes,  Merope  is  about  to  slay  her  son,  but 
discovers  him  and  does  not.  In  the  Iphigenia  the  sister  in  the 
same  manner  discovers  her  brother ;  and  in  the  Helle  the  son 
discovers  his  mother  at  the  instant  when  he  was  going  to  give  her 
up.  On  this  account  it  is  that  the  subjects  of  tragedy,  as  before 
remarked,  are  confined  to  a  small  number  of  families.  For  it  was 
not  to  art,  but  to  fortune,  that  poets  applied  themselves  to  find 
incidents  of  this  nature.  Hence  the  necessity  of  having  recourse 
to  those  families  in  which  such  calamities  have  happened. 

Of  the  arrangement  of  the  incidents,  and  of  the  kind  of  which 
the  story  should  be,  enough  has  now  been  said. 

CHAPTER   XV.  —  CHARACTER 

With  respect  to  Character  four  things  are  to  be  aimed  at  by 
the  poet.  First  and  principally,  it  must  be  good.  Now,  character 
belongs,  as  we  have  said  before,  to  any  speech  or  action  that  mani- 
fests a  certain  disposition ;  and  it  is  good  as  this  is  good.  This 
holds  in  each  kind ;  a  woman  or  a  slave  may  be  good,  though,  in 
general,  women  are  perhaps  inferior,  and  slaves  altogether  bad. 
The  second  requisite  of  Character  is  propriety.  There  is  a  manly 
character  of  ftravery  and  fierceness  which  cannot,  with  propriety, 
be  given  to  a  woman.  The  third  requisite  is  verisimilitude1;  for 
this  is  a  different  thing  from  their  being  good  and  proper,  as  above 
described.  The  fourth  is  consistency  ;  for  even  though  the  model 
of  the  poet's  imitation  be  some  person  of  inconsistent  character, 
still  that  person  must  be  represented  as  consistently  inconsistent. 

1  T.,  "  resemblance  "  ;  B.,  "truth  to  life."  I  am  not  quite  satisfied  with  either 
of  these  terms,  or  with  my  own,  for  S/JLOLOV,  which  (see  commentary  in  B.  at 
passages  noted  in  his  index)  usually  means  in  the  Poetics  "  the  quality  of  a  man 
like  ourselves,"  "  average  humanity." 


16  THE  POETICS 

We  have  an  example  of  character  unnecessarily  bad  in  the  char- 
acter of  Menelaus  in  the  tragedy  of  Orestes;  of  improper  and 
unbecoming  manners  in  the  lamentation  of  Ulysses  in  Scylla, 
and  in  the  speech  of  Melanippe ;  of  inconsistency  in  the  Iphlgenia 
at  Aulis ;  for  there  the  Iphigenia  who  supplicates  for  life  has  no 
resemblance  to  the  later  one. 

In  the  character,  as  in  the  plot,  the  poet  should  always  aim, 
either  at  what  is  necessary,  or  at  what  is  probable ;  so  that  such  a 
character  shall  appear  to  speak  or  act,  necessarily  or  probably,  in 
such  a  manner,  and  this  event  to  be  the  necessary  or  probable  conse- 
quence of  that.  Hence  it  is  evident  that  the  denouement  also  of  a 
plot  should  arise  out  of  the  plot  itself,  and  not  depend  upon 
Machinery,1  as  in  the  Medea,  or  in  the  incidents  relative  to  the 
return  of  the  Greeks,  in  the  Iliad.  The  proper  application  of 
Machinery1  is  to  such  circumstances  as  are  extraneous  to  the 
drama;  such  as  either  happened  before  the  time  of  the  action,  and 
could  not,  by  human  means,  be  known ;  or  are  to  happen  after,  and 
require  to  be  foretold ;  for  to  the  Gods  we  attribute  the  knowledge 
of  all  things.  But  nothing  improbable2  should  be  admitted  in  the 
incidents  of  the  plot ;  or,  if  it  cannot  be  avoided,  it  should,  at  least, 
be  confined  to  such  as  are  without  the  tragedy  itself;  as  in  the 
(Edipus  of  Sophocles. 

And  since  Tragedy  is  an  imitation  of  our  betters,  we  should 
follow  the  example  of  skilful  portrait  painters ;  who,  while  they 
express  the  peculiar  lineaments,  and  produce  a  likeness,  at  the 
same  time  improve  upon  the  original.  And  thus,  too,  the  poet, 
when  he  imitates  passionate  men  (or'indolent,  or  others  of  a  similar 
kind),  should  draw  them  as  they  are,  but  reasonably  attractive8 :  as 
Achilles  is  drawn  by  Agathon  and  by  Homer.  These  things  the 
poet  should  keep  in  view;  and,  besides  these,  whatever  relates 

1  B.r  more  completely  for  modern  readers,  "the  Deus  ex  Machina." 

2  B.,  "irrational,"  more  literally. 

8  B.,  "should  preserve  the  type  and  yet  ennoble  it."  I  have  tried  to  keep 
still  closer  to  twieiKe'is,  but  have  followed  him,  as  he  has  followed  Mr.  By  water, 
in  omitting  two  words,  irapdSeiyna  O-K-X^TIJTOS  —  "an  example  of  hardness  "  — 
which  make  no  sense  unless  something  is  added.  T.,  retaining  (and  doing  some 
violence  to)  them,  has  "  draw  an  example  approaching  rather  to  a  good  than  to 
a  hard  and  ferocious  character." 


DETAILS  AND  MISCELLANEA  ON  TRAGEDY  17 

to  those  senses  which  have  a  necessary  connection  with  poetry ;  for 
here,  also,  he  may  often  err.  But  of  this  enough  has  been  said  in 
the  treatises  already  published. 

CHAPTERS   XVI-XXIL  — DETAILS   AND   MISCELLANEA   ON 

TRAGEDY 

XVI  illustrates  "  discovery  "  from  different  Greek  tragedies  in  a  manner 
not  very  relevant  for  general  critical  purposes,  and  is  perhaps  spurious. 

XVII.  1-2.     CAUTIONS  AS  TO  STAGE  PROBABILITY 

The  Poet,  both  when  he  plans  and  when  he  writes  his  Tragedy, 
should  put  himself  as  much  as  possible  in  the  place  of  a  spectator ; 
for  by  this  means,  seeing  everything  distinctly,  as  if  present  at  the 
action,  he  will  discern  what  is  proper,  and  no  inconsistencies  will 
escape  him.  The  fault  objected  to  Carcinus  is  a  proof  of  this. 
Amphiaraus  had  left  the  temple.  This  the  poet,  for  want  of  con- 
ceiving the  action  to  pass  before  his  eyes,  overlooked ;  but  in  the 
representation  the  audience  were  disgusted  and  the  piece  condemned. 

In  composing,  the  poet  should  even,  as  much  as  possible,  be  an 
actor1;  for,  by  natural  sympathy,  they  are  most  persuasive  and 
affecting  who  are  under  the  influence  of  actual  passion.  We  share 
the  agitation  of  those  who  appear  to  be  truly  agitated ;  the  anger 
of  those  who  appear  to  be  truly  angry.  Hence  it  is  that  poetry 
demands  either  great  natural  quickness  of  parts  or  an  enthusiasm 
allied  to  madness.2  By  the  first  of  these  we  mould  ourselves  with 
facility  to  the  imitation  of  every  form ;  by  the  other,  transported 
out  of  ourselves,  we  become  what  we  imagine.3 

1  B.,  "should  work  out  his  play,  to  the  best  of  his  power,  with  appropriate 
gestures." 

2  Lit. ,  "Poetry  is  either  of  a  genius  or  a  madman,  for  of  these  the  first  are  plastic 
and  the  others  out  of  themselves."     This,  which  follows  Plato,  is  itself  the  origin 
of  the  doctrine  of  furor  poeticus,  which  the  pseudo-Aristotelian  critics  of  the  16th- 
18th  centuries  took  such  pains  to  combine  with  that  of  Sense,  Nature,  and  Reason. 

8  The  extraordinary  capacity  of  expression  in  Greek  is  perhaps  shown  in 
these  two  sentences  better  than  almost  anywhere.  The  whole  from  "  Hence  " 
to  "imagine"  occupies  in  the  Greek  sixteen  words  only,  the  gist  lying  in  five. 
There  are  forty-six  in  T.  and  thirty-eight  in  B. 


18  THE  POETICS 

The  rest  of  the  chapter  is  practical  on  the  arrangement  of  plot  and 
episode. 

XVIII  explains    the    terms    Seats   and    Aims,    the    intertwining    and 
denouement  of  the  plot : 

Every  Tragedy  consists  of  two  parts  —  the  Complication  and  the 
Denouement.1  The  Complication  is  often  formed  by  incidents  sup- 
posed prior  to  the  action,  and  by  a  part  also  of  those  that  are  within 
the  action ;  the  rest  form  the  Denouement,  I  call  Complication  all 
that  is  between  the  beginning  of  the  piece  and  the  last  part,  where 
the  change  of  fortune  commences ;  Denouement  all  between  the 
beginning  of  that  change  and  the  conclusion. 

This  is  followed  by  rather  desultory  observations  on  the  conduct  of 
these  operations  by  different  poets,  but  the  following  is  important : 

The  Chorus  should  be  considered  as  one  of  the  persons  in  the 
drama ;  should  be  a  part  of  the  whole  and  a  sharer  in  the  action, 
not  as  in  Euripides,  but  as  in  Sophocles.  As  for  other  poets,  their 
choral  songs  have  no  more  connection  with  their  subject  than  with 
that  of  any  other  tragedy ;  and  hence  they  are  now  become  detached 
pieces,  inserted  at  pleasure ;  a  practice  first  introduced  by  Agathon. 
Yet  where  is  the  difference  between  this  arbitrary  insertion  of  an 
ode  and  the  transposition  of  a  speech,  or  even  of  a  whole  episode,2 
from  one  tragedy  to  another  ? 

XIX  approaches,  and  XX  and  XXI  discuss,  the  subject  of  Diction :  but 
the  first  is  vague,  and  the  other  two  consist  of  trivial  and  probably  spuri- 
ous grammatical  observations.     XXII  reads  in  a  more  likely  fashion,  but 
does  little  more  than  repeat  the  doctrine  of  the  Rhetoric,  v.  inf.,  on  Kvpia. 
and  £eva,  with  remarks  (again  similar)  on  the  value,  and  the  danger,  of 
metaphor.     It  is  important  that  Aristotle,  in  the  teeth  of  Wordsworth's 
future  theory,  holds  that  prosaic  and  familiar  language  is  mainly  appro- 
priate to  "iambic,"  i.e.,  satiric,  verse. 

1 T.,  "Development";  B.,  "unravelling,"  but  with  denouement  as  an 
alternative.  This  word  is  now  practically  naturalized;  but  "complication" 
is  a  little  awkward.  It  might  not  be  ill  boldly  to  install  "  knotting  "  (Chaucer 
uses  "knot"  for  "plot")  and  "unknotting"  as  the  English  equivalents  for 
Greek  desis  and  lusis. 

2B.,  probably  better,  "act."  The  double  sense  of  the  word  is  sometimes 
rather  troublesome. 


THE  EPIC  19 

CHAPTER   XXIII   AND   PART    OF   XXIV—  THE   EPIC 

With  respect  to  that  species  of  Poetry  which  imitates  by  Narra- 
tion and  in  verse,1  it  is  obvious  that  the  plot  ought  to  be  dramatic- 
ally constructed,  like  that  of  tragedy,  and  that  it  should  have  for 
its  subject  one  entire  and  perfect  action,  having  a  beginning,  a 
middle,  and  an  end.  So  that,  forming  like  an  animal2  a  complete 
whole,  it  may  afford  its  proper  pleasure,  and  will  not  in  its  con- 
struction be  like  history,  which  necessarily  treats  not  of  one  action, 
but  of  one  time,  and  of  all  the  events  that  happened  to  one  person, 
or  to  many,  during  that  time  —  events,  the  relation  of  which  to  each 
other  is  merely  casual.  For,  as  the  naval  action  at  Salamis  and 
the  battle  with  the  Carthaginians  in  Sicily  were  events  of  the 
same  time,  unconnected  by  any  relation  to  a  common  end  or  pur- 
pose, so  also,  in  successive  events,  we  sometimes  see  one  thing 
follow  another  without  being  connected  to  it  by  such  relation. 
And  this  is  the  practice  of  the  generality  of  poets.  Even  in  this, 
therefore,  as  we  have  before  observed,  the  superiority  of  Homer's 
genius  is  apparent  —  that  he  did  not  attempt  to  bring  the  whole 
war,  though  an  entire  action  with  beginning  and  end,  into  his  poem. 
It  would  have  been  too  vast  an  object,  and  not  easily  comprehended 
in  one  view  ;  or  had  he  forced  it  into  a  moderate  compass,  it  would 
have  been  perplexed  by  its  variety.  Instead  of  this,  selecting  one 
part  only  of  the  war,  he  has  from  the  rest  introduced  many  episodes 
—  such  as  the  catalogue  of  the  ships,  and  others  —  by  which  he  has 
diversified  his  poem.  Other  poets  take  for  their  subject  the  actions 
of  one  person,  or  of  one  period  of  time  ;  or  an  action  which,  though 
one,  is  composed  of  many  parts.  Thus  the  author  of  the  Cypriacs  and 
of  the  Little  Iliad.  Hence  it  is  that  the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssey  each 
of  them  furnish  matter  for  one  tragedy,  or  two  at  most  ;  but  from 
the  Cypriacs  many  may  be  taken,  and  from  the  Little  Iliad  eight  or 
more,  as  the  Contest  for  the  Armour,  Philoctetes,  Neoptolemus, 
Eurypylus,  the  Begging  of  Ulysses,  the  Spartan  Women,  the  Fall 
of  Troy,  the  Sailing  of  the  Fleet,  Sinon,  and  the  Trojan  Women.3 


1  So  the  MS.,  fv  utrpif).     B.,  very  ingeniously,  evl  utrpy,  "  in  a  single  metre." 
It  has  been  usual  to  read  tv  ifantrpy  "  in  hexameter  verse,"  and  so  T. 

2  See  note  supra,  p.  8.  8  Some  omit  these  two  last. 


20  THE  POETICS 

Again,  the  Epic  Poem  must  also  agree  with  the  tragic  as  to  its 
kinds  —  it  must  be  simple  or  complicated,  ethic  or  pathetic.  Its 
parts  also,  setting  aside  music  and  decoration,  are  the  same,  for 
it  requires  revolutions,  discoveries,  and  disasters,  and  it  must  be 
furnished  with  proper  sentiments  and  diction,  of  all  which  Homer 
gave  both  the  first  and  the  most  perfect  example.  Thus,  of  his 
two  poems,  the  Iliad  is  of  the  simple  and  pathetic  kind,  the 
Odyssey  complicated  (for  it  abounds  throughout  with  discoveries) 
and  ethic.  Add  to  this,  that  in  diction  and  thought  he  has  surpassed 
all  poets. 

The  rest  of  XXIV  deals  with  the  points  in  -which  Epic  differs  from 
Tragedy.  Its  scale  is  much  larger,  but  need  not  be  so  large  as  that  of  the 
"  ancients  "  [dpxcuW].  This  larger  scale  admits  of  episodes  and  avoids  the 
monotony  which  besets  tragedy.  [This  is  an  important  confession.] 
"  Heroic  "  metre  has  been  justified  by  experience.  Xobody  has  succeeded 
with  any  other.  The  epic  poet  should  very  seldom  appear  in  propria  persona. 
He  has  the  advantage  over  the  Tragedian  in  being  able  to  introduce  not 
merely  the  Wonderful  but  the  Irrational  —  because  his  actors  are  not  seen. 

But  both  "  SHOULD  PREFER  PLAUSIBLE    IMPOSSIBILITIES    TO  IMPROBABLE 

POSSIBILITIES."     This  is  one  of  the  greatest  critical  dicta  of  the  whole 
book.     And  "  POETIC  CHARM  CAN  MAKE  ABSURDITY  IMPERCEPTIBLE." 


CHAPTERS  XXIV  TO  END.— ADDEXDA  OX  POETIC   CRITICISM 

The  treatise,  as  we  have  it,  ends  with  a  consideration  of  critical  objec- 
tions to  poetry,  and  a  critical  comparison  of  Tragedy  and  Epic.  The  first 
is  rather  disappointing.  A.  gives  five  possible  lines  of  criticism  —  tending 
to  fix  on  the  work  criticised  Impossibility,  Irrationality,  Moral  Hurtf  ulness, 
Self-contradiction,  and  Artistic  Error :  and  supplies  twelve  categories  of  reply. 
But  he  busies  himself  almost  wholly  with  material  objections — to  the 
description  of  spears  set  point  upwards  (said  to  be  an  actual  Illyrian  cus- 
tom), or  else  verbal  criticisms  (change  accent,  breathing,  or  punctuation,  etc.). 
In  fact,  the  passage  is  rather  desultory  and  rather  peddling.  The  compar- 
ison of  Epic  and  Tragedy  rises  higher.  After  defending  the  latter  from 
the  charge  of  appealing  to  a  vulgar  taste  —  that  for  gesture  —  and  expressly 
vindicating  its  charm  as  merely  read,  A.  goes  on  (XXVI.  4)  : 

And  Tragedy  is  superior  because  it  possesses  all  that  Epic 
possesses  ;  it  might  even  adopt  the  metre :  and  to  this  it  makes  no 


21 

inconsiderable  addition  in  the  music  and  the  decoration ;  by  which 
the  pleasure  is  rendered  most  distinct.  '  It  has  also  this  distinctness 
as  well  in  reading  as  in  representation.  Moreover,  it  attains  the  end 
of  its  imitation  in  a  shorter  compass ;  for  the  concentrated  effect  is 
more  pleasurable  than  when  weakened  by  diffusion  through  a  long 
extent  of  time,  as  the  (Edipus  of  Sophocles,  for  example,  would  be 
if  it  were  drawn  out  to  the  length  of  the  Iliad. 

Further,  there  is  less  unity  in  epic  imitation,  as  appears  from 
this  —  that  any  epic  poem  will  furnish  matter  for  several  tragedies. 
For,  supposing  the  poet  to  choose  a  fable  strictly  one,  either  his 
poem,  if  proportionably  contracted,  will  appear  curtailed,  or,  if 
extended  to  the  usual  length,  it  will  become  washy.  .  .  .*  The 
Iliad,  for  example,  and  the  Odyssey  contain  many  such  subordinate 
parts,  each  of  which  has  a  certain  magnitude  and  unity  of  its  own ; 
yet  is  the  construction  of  those  poems  as  perfect,  and  as  nearly 
approaching  to  the  imitation  of  a  single  action,  as  possible. 

If,  then,  Tragedy  be  superior  to  the  Epic  in  all  these  respects, 
and  also  in  its  work  as  an  art  (for  each  art  ought  to  afford,  not 
any  sort  of  pleasure,  but  only  that  laid  down  for  it),  it  evidently 
follows  that  Tragedy,  as  it  attains  more  effectually  the  end  of  the 
art  itself,  must  deserve  the  preference. 

1  After  this  there  is  an  apparent  gap  in  the  sense  which  it  does  not  seem 
possible  to  supply  shortly.  T.  has,  "  If,  on  the  other  hand,  we  suppose  him  to 
employ  several  fables  —  that  is,  a  fable  composed  of  several  actions  —  his  imita- 
tion is  no  longer  strictly  One."  B.,  more  wisely,  accepts  the  gap.  Perhaps, 
after  all,  it  is  more  apparent  than  real.  The  [epic]  action  of  the  Iliad  and 
Odyssey  is  not  washy  being  epic :  it  would  be  washy  in  tragic  form. 


II 

ARISTOTLE 

2.     THE   RHETORIC 

(The  first  two  books  of  the  Rhetoric  have  little  or  nothing  to  do  with 
Criticism,  being  wholly  occupied  with  the  subject  as  the  "  Art  of  Persuas- 
ion," and  with  the  methods  of  effecting  that  persuasion  most  valuable  to 
the  orator  in  court  or  public  assembly  —  especially  the  dispositions  of  the 
hearers,  and  the  probable  circumstances  of  cases  or  causes.  The  Third 
Book,  however,  deals  with  the  Style  (or  Diction)  and  with  the  Arrange- 
ment of  a  speech ;  and  so,  incidentally,  with  these  matters  in  regard  to  all 
literary  composition  in  prose.  This  Book  therefore  becomes  of  almost  the 
highest  critical  importance.1) 

BOOK  III.     CHAPTER  I.  — STYLE    (AXD  DELIVERY?) 

As  there  are  three  points  which  ought  to  be  handled  respecting 
a  speech ;  one,  as  to  the  sources  out  of  which  will  arise  means  of 
persuasion ;  a  second,  respecting  the  style ;  a  third,  how  we  ought 
to  arrange  the  parts  of  a  speech,  —  on  the  subject  of  the  means  of 
persuasion  we  have  already  spoken.  ...  It  follows  that  we  treat 
of  the  subject  of  Style  :  for  the  mere  being  in  possession  of  what 
one  ought  to  say  is  not  enough ;  but  it  is  moreover  necessary  that 
we  deliver  it  as  we  ought;  and  this  contributes  much  to  give  the 
speech  quality* 

1  The  following  translation  is  based  upon  the  old  "Oxford"  version  with 
very  considerable  alterations  by  the  present  editor.     The  Greek  text  used  is 
generally  Cope's,  and  a  few  variants  of  version  will  be  given  from  him  and  from 
Bp.  Welldon,  op.  cit.    These  scholars  will  be  referred  to  as  C.  and  W. 

2  Lit.,  "to  make  it  appear  of  a  certain  kind."     C.,  "character";  W.,  "a 
certain  colour." 

22 


STYLE   (AND  DELIVERY?)  23 

Now  that  which  by  its  nature  is  first,  was,  conformably  to  nature, 
investigated  the  first ;  viz.,  whence  these  things  derive  their  persuas- 
ive efficacy :  next  to  this  was  the  disposition  of  them  in  the  speak- 
ing :  and  thirdly  [arose  an  enquiry]  of  the  greatest  consequence, 
but  which  never  yet  has  been  handled,  on  the  subject  of  Delivery. 
For  this  was  introduced  into  tragedy  and  the  public  recitations  at  a 
late  period,  since  at  first  the  poets  used  themselves  to  sustain  the 
dialogue  in  their  tragedies.  It  is  therefore  plain  that  some  such 
power  exists  in  relation  to  Rhetoric,  as  well  as  to  Poetry ;  of  which 
[as  connected  with  the  latter  art]  Glauco  the  Teian,  and  some  others, 
have  treated.  And  it  depends  on  the  voice,  as  to  how  we  ought 
to  manage  it  in  reference  to  each  several  passion :  when,  for  instance, 
we  should  employ  a  loud,  when  a  low,  and  when  a  moderate  pitch 
of  voice ;  and  on  the  manner  in  which  we  should  employ  its  tones, 
viz.,  the  acute,  the  grave,  and  the  intermediate ;  and  on  certain 
rhythms  in  reference  to  each.  For  the  points,  in  reference  to  which 
men  conduct  these  enquiries,  are  three,  viz.,  the  loudness  of  the 
voice,  the  fitness  of  its  tones,  and  its  rhythm.  Now  these  pro- 
ficients bear  away  nearly  all  the  prizes  in  the  disputations  ;  and  as 
in  the  other  contests  the  actors  now  produce  a  greater  effect  than 
the  poets,  so  likewise  do  they  in  civil  causes,  owing  to  the  depravity 
of  states.  There  is  not  yet  however  any  "Art "  compiled  respecting 
these  points,  since  even  the  subject  of  Style  was  brought  forward 
at  a  late  period,  and,  if  rightly  conceived  of,  it l  appears  a  vulgar 
sort  of  thing.  But  as  the  whole  subject  of  rhetoric  has  reference  to 
opinion,  we  should  pay  attention  to  it,  as  to  a  matter  not  of  moral 
obligation,  but  of  practical  necessity.  For  mere  justice  seeks  no 
further  in  speeches  than  neither  to  vex  nor  to  charm  ;  since  the  rule 
of  right  is,  that  the  contest  be  carried  on  by  means  of  the  facts 
themselves.  So  that,  except  the  proof,  all  the  rest  is  superfluous ; 

1  Some  would  limit  these  slighting  remarks  to  "elocution"  in  its  limited 
modern  sense,  i.e.,  mere  delivery.  So  W.  who  translates  —  italicizing,  however, 
to  show  that  the  word  is  not  in  the  text — "and  declamation  is  thus  popu- 
larly considered,  and  indeed  is  rightly  supposed,  to  be  something  vulgar." 
The  original  —  text  and  context  —  makes  this  possible  rather  than  (to  me) 
probable ;  but  it  is  certain  from  the  whole  chapter  that  Aristotle  had  not 
thoroughly  cleared  up  his  mind  on  the  difference  between  the  two  senses  of 
"  elocution." 


24  THE   RHETORIC 

but  it  is  notwithstanding,  as  has  been  stated,  a  point  of  great 
moment,  in  consequence  of  the  weak  judgment  of  the  auditor.  The 
subject  of  style,  however,  has  some  necessary  though  trifling  claim 
on  our  attention  in  all  kinds  of  teaching ;  for  the  expressing  one's 
self  in  this  or  that  way  does  make  a  difference  with  a  view  to 
exhibiting  the  subject  clearly,  though  not  to  so  great  a  degree  [as 
is  generally  supposed].1  All  these  points  are  however  mere  idea, 
and  have  a  reference  to  the  auditor ;  wherefore  it  is  that  no  one 
teaches  geometry  in  such  a  style. 

This  art  then,  be  it  introduced  when  it  may,  will  produce  the 
same  effect  as  that  of  acting.  And  some,  to  a  small  extent,  have 
already  made  an  effort  to  treat  of  it ;  Thrasymachus,  for  instance, 
on  the  excitement  of  compassion.  Again,  the  being  qualified  for 
delivery  is  a  gift  of  nature,  and  rather  outside  the  province  of  art ; 
the  subject  of  style,  however,  is  clearly  reducible  to  an  art.  Where- 
fore rewards  are  bestowed  in  turn  .on  those  who  are  proficients  in 
this,  just  as  they  are  on  those  rhetoricians  [who  claim]  on  the 
ground  of  delivery ;  for  written  orations  influence  more  by  means 
of  their  style  than  through  their  thought.2 

Now  the  poets,  as  was  natural,  began  to  make  a  stir  upon  the 
subject  at  first ;  for  words  are  imitations,  and  the  voice,  of  all  our 
parts,  is  the  most  imitative;  on  which  account  also  these  arts  were 
constructed,  both  that  of  recitation,  and  that  of  acting,  and  others 
too.  But  as  the  poets,  though  what  they  said  was  very  frivolous, 
appeared  to  acquire  their  reputation  by  means  of  their  style,  on 
this  account  the  first  style  [of  rhetoric]  was  formed  on  that  of 
poetry  —  witness  the  style  of  Gorgias  ;  and  even  at  the  present  time 
the  majority  of  ignorant  people  fancy  that  such  orators  speak  most 
finely.  This,  however,  is  not  the  case,  but  the  style  of  poetry  and 
that  of  prose  are  distinct,  and  the  result  shows  it ;  for  not  even  the 
writers  of  tragedy  themselves  any  longer  employ  the  same  turn  of 
diction.  But  just  as  they  have  passed  from  trochaic  to  iambic  metre, 

1  Observe  that,  even  if  the  former  passage  of  slight  be  limited  to  delivery, 
this  certainly  is  not ;  though  A.  veers  back  thereto  presently. 

2  Here,  as  in  the  Poetics,  the  older  translators  rendered  di&voia  "  sentiment "  ; 
and  here,  as  there,  it  is  not  easy  to  get  a  single  English  equivalent.     C.,  "  thought 
or  intellectual  part"  ;  "W.,  "thought"  simply. 


DICTION,  STAPLE  AND  UNFAMILIAR  (METAPHOR)       25 

because  the  latter  is  most  like  prose  of  all  the  other  metres,  so 
have  they  also  relinquished  all  those  terms  which  are  foreign  to  the 
style  of  conversation,  although  the  early  writers  used  to  embellish 
[their  works]  with  these,  and  even  at  the  present  day  they  are 
employed  by  those  who  write  in  heroic  metre.  Wherefore  it  is 
ridiculous  to  imitate  the  tragedians,  who  in  their  own  case  no 
longer  employ  that  turn  of  diction. 

So  that  it  is  evident  that  we  need  not  discuss  with  minuteness 
all  points  soever  which  it  is  possible  to  treat  of  under  the  head  of 
style,  but  so  many  only  as  belong  to  such  an  art  as  we  are  speaking 
of :  the  other  part  of  the  subject  has  been  spoken  of  in  my  treatise 
on  Poetry. 

CHAPTER  II.  — DICTION,    STAPLE    AND    UNFAMILIAR 
(METAPHOR) 

Let  this  then  have  been  discussed :  and  let  excellence  of  style 
be  defined  to  consist  in  its  being  clear  (a  sign  of  which  is  this,  that 
the  diction,  unless  it  make  the  sentiment  clear,  will  not  effect  its 
purpose),  and  neither  low,  nor  above  the  dignity  of  the  subject,  but 
suitable ;  for  the  style  of  poetry  indeed  is  not  low,  yet  it  is  not 
becoming  in  prose. 

Of  nouns  and  verbs  those  which  are  in  general  use l  produce  the 
effect  of  clearness  ;  to  prevent  its  being  low,  and  to  give  it  ornament, 
there  are  other  words  which  have  been  mentioned  in  the  Poetics. 
A  departure  [from  ordinary  acceptations]  causes  language  to  appear 
more  dignified;  for  men  are  affected  in  respect  of  style  in  the  very 
same  way  as  they  are  towards  foreigners  and  citizens.  On  which 
account  you  should  give  your  phrase  a  foreign  air ;  for  men  are 
admirers  of  things  out  of  the  way,  and  what  is  an  object  of  admir- 
ation is  pleasant.  Now  in  verse,  there  are  many  things  which 
produce  this  effect,  and  there  are  suitable,  because  both  the  subject 
and  the  person  stand  more  apart  [from  ordinary  life].  In  prose, 
however,  we  must  use  fewer,  for  the  subject  is  less  exalted :  since 

1  Ktpia.  C.,  "proper,"  which,  however,  too  much  suggests  the  sense  of  the 
French  mot  propre.  6v6fw.ro.  tctpia  are  "standard,"  "staple,"  "authorized" 
words,  neither  vulgar  nor  "out-of-the-way."  W.,  "proper  or  usual.''1 


26  THE  RHETORIC 

even  in  that  art  were  a  slave,  or  a  youth,  or  one  speaking  of  mere 
trifles  to  "  talk  fine,"  it  would  be  rather  unbecoming ;  but  here  too 
[as  in  poetry]  the  rule  of  good  taste  is,  that  your  style  be  lowered 
or  raised  according  to  the  subject.  On  which  account  we  must 
escape  observation  in  doing  this,  and  appear  not  to  speak  in  a 
studied  manner,  but  naturally.  For  a  natural  style  tends  to  persuade, 
the  other  does  the  very  reverse ;  because  people  put  themselves  on 
their  guard,  as  though  against  one  who  has  a  design  upon  them, 
just  as  they  do  against  loaded  wine.  .  .  -1 

As  however  nouns  and  verbs  are  [the  materials]  of  which  the 
speech  is  made  up,  and  as  nouns  admit  so  many  species  as  have 
been  examined  in  the  Poetics,  out  of  the  number  of  these  we  must 
employ  but  sparingly,  and  in  very  few  places,  exotic  and  compound 
words,  and  those  newly  coined.  Where  they  may  be  employed  I 
will  state  hereafter :  the  reason  of  the  restriction  has  been  men- 
tioned, viz.,  because  they  remove  your  style  from  that  of  common 
life  more  than  is  consistent  with  good  taste.  Words  however  of 
ordinary  use,2  and  in  their  original  acceptations,  and  metaphors,  are 
alone  available  in  the  style  of  prose  :  a  proof  [that  this  is  the  fact, 
is]  that  these  are  the  only  words  which  all  persons  employ;  for 
everybody  carries  on  conversation  by  means  of  metaphors,  and 
words  in  their  primary  sense,  and  those  of  ordinary  use.  Therefore 
it  is  clear  that  points  of  good  style  are  striking  ["  foreign  "]  effect, 
and  the  concealment  of  art,  and  clearness. 

The  latter  part  of  the  chapter  deals  with  Metaphors  and  (with  a  cross 
reference  to  the  Poetics)  insists  on  their  being  (1)  analogically  appropriate, 
(2)  adjusted  in  point  of  subject  to  the  purpose  of  exalting  or  degrading  as 
the  case  may  be,  (3)  euphonious,  (4)  not  too  far-fetched,  (5)  derived  from 
beautiful  objects. 

1  Illustrations,  not  entirely  clear,  and  therefore  omitted,  follow  as  to  the 
acting  of  Theodoras  and  the  style  of  Euripides. 

2  ictipia.  as  before. 


FRIGIDITY  27 

CHAPTER  III.  —  FRIGIDITY 

Frigidity,1  as  dependent  on  the  style,  consists  in  four  points.  In 
the  use  of  compound  words  ;  like  Lycophron,  where  he  says,  "  the 
many-visaged  heaven,"  and  "  the  mighty-topped  earth,"  and  "  the 
narrow-gladed  2  shore."  And  as  Gorgias  used  the  expression,  "a 
beggarly-mused  flatterer,"  and  "  the  forsworn  and  downright-truly- 
sworn."  8  Or  like  Alcidamas,  [who  talks  of]  "  the  soul  replete  with 
anger,  and  the  visage  waxing  fire-coloured."  Again,  "  he  supposed 
their  zeal  would  be  completion-working  "  ;  and  "  he  settled  a  com- 
pletion-working persuasiveness  of  speech  "  ;  and  "  the  azure-hued 
level  of  the  main."  For  all  these  expressions,  by  reason  of  their 
being  compounded,  appear  poetical. 

This,  then,  is  one  cause  :  also  the  employment  of  strange  terms  4 
is  one  ;  as  when  Lycophron  calls  Xerxes,  "prodigious  hero,"  and 
Sciron,  "  baneful  man,"  or  Alcidamas,  when  he  says  "  gambollings  5 
in  poetry,"  and  "nature's  surquedry,"6  and  "whetted  by  unre- 
strained rage  of  soul." 

A  third  description  of  Frigidity  consists  in  the  employment  of 
epithets  either  too  long,  or  out  of  place,  or  too  frequent  ;  for  in  poetry, 


1  This  word,  though  the  only  possible  equivalent  for  the  Greek  fvxpbrrjs,  is 
not  satisfactory.     The  quality  referred  to  is  described  in  English  by  different 
adjectives  and  substantives  for  its  different  subvarieties  :  —  "  tinsel,"  "  fustian," 
"poor,"  "claptrap."     Generally  spfiaking,  it  may  be  said  to  be  that  which 
intends  to  produce  excitement,  enthusiasm,  sense  of  the  sublime  or  striking,  and 
fails.     The  ancients  were  more  afraid  of  this,  and  disliked  it  more,  than  any 
other  fault  ;  and  the  remarks,  both  of  Aristotle  at  one  end  and  of  Longinus  at 
the  other,  may  seem,  even  to  rather  severe  modern  critics,  excessive  in  their 
severity.     C.  and  W.  translate  ^VXP^  "faults  of  taste,"  which  seems  to  me 
rather  too  wide. 

2  Spenser  (F.  Q.,  III.  4.  xxi.  5)  uses  "  glade  "  of  the  coast  passage  between  sea 
and  cliff  ;  and  I  have  thought  it  allowable  here  for  arevoTrbpov. 

3  Gi*eek  KarevopK^a-avras  :  the  double  compound  seems  to  be  objected  to.     W., 
"forsworn  and  forever-sworn." 

4  7Xc6rrois  :  these  are  the  verba  insolentia  of  divers  Latin  cautions  —  the 
p-/lfjLa.Ta  fK<t>v\a  of  Lucian. 

5  &6vp/M  :  apparently  an  obsolete  or  purely  poetical  word  for  "  amusement." 
C.  suggests  "toy"  or  "gaud"  ;  W.,  "baubles." 

6  draffOa^ia  :  the  favourite  Homeric  word  for  "insolent  crime."     C.,  outre- 
cuidance;  W.,  "retchlessness." 


28  THE  RHETORIC 

indeed,  it  is  becoming  enough  to  say  "  white  milk  "  ;  in  prose,  how- 
ever, it  is  rather  bad  taste.  Also,  should  there  be  a  superabundance, 
it  is  telltale  and  makes  it  evident  that  the  whole  is  a  mere  made-up 
thing 1 ;  this,  however,  you  may  occasionally  avail  yourself  of,  since 
it  produces  a  departure  from  the  ordinary  style,  and  renders  the 
diction  foreign.  Yet  ought  we  to  aim  at  the  mean  ;  for  a  too 
free  indulgence  in  the  licence  does  more  harm  than  speaking 
carelessly ;  for  the  one  is  not  good,  the  other  is  bad.  Hence  it 
is  that  the  writings  of  Alcidamas  appear  frigid ;  for  he  employs 
epithets  not  as  the  seasoning,  but  as  the  food,  with  such  profusion 
does  he  scatter  them,  and  those  both  too  long,  and  where  the 
meaning  is  self-evident. 

A  long  list  of  criminal  examples  from  Alcidamas  follows  ;  but  as  almost 
every  one  would,  ut  supra,  require  the  citation  of  the  original  Greek  and  a 
note,  they  are  omitted.  The  most  striking  instances  of  A's  prudery  are 
the  objections,  under  the  fourth  head  of  improper  metaphor,  to  this  same 
Alcidamas  for  calling  philosophy  "  a  rampart  of  the  laws  "  (or,  as  some  say, 
"  an  outpost  against  the  laws  ")  and  the  Odyssey  "  a  fair  mirror  of  human 
life." 

CHAPTERS   IV-V.— SIMILES,  "PURITY" 

In  Chap.  IV,  A.  states  the  obvious  differences  and  resemblances  between 
Simile  and  Metaphor.  In  V,  handling  the  important  subject  of  "  Purity," 
he  is  at  first  a  little  rudimentary  and  grammatical,  but  ends  with  four 
important  cautions,  that  style  must  be  (1)  easy  to  read  and  understand, 
(2)  not  of  ambiguous  punctuation,  (3)  not  mixed  in  expression,  (4)  not 
too  much  parenthesized. 

CHAPTERS   VI-IX.— ELEVATION,    PROPRIETY,   RHYTHM. 
LOOSE  AND  PERIODIC    STYLE 

The  following  expedients  contribute  to  Elevation2  of  the  style, 
viz.,  —  the  employing  the  definition  instead  of  the  noun;  saying 

1  Perhaps  "  that  it  is  poetry."     W.,  "show  it  to  be  simple  poetry." 

2  This,  like  Frigidity,  is  not  quite  satisfactory  for  the  Greek.     6ynos  means 
"bulk  accompanied  by  weight."     Perhaps  "importance,"  as  used  in  artistic 
slang,  comes  nearest.     C.  translates  "  dignity  or  amplification  " ;  W.,  "  dignity  " 
only. 


ELEVATION,   PROPRIETY,   RHYTHM  29 

for  instance,  not  "  a  circle,"  but  "  a  plane  superficies,  whose  circum- 
ference is  at  all  points  equidistant  from,  the  centre."  The  reverse, 
however,  viz.,  the  use  of  the  noun  instead  of  the  definition,  con- 
tributes to  abruptness. 

Again,  if  the  matter  be  indelicate  or  unbecoming  ;  using  the  noun, 
if  the  indelicacy  be  in  the  definition ;  or  the  definition,  if  it  be  in 
the  noun. 

Also,  the  illustration  of  the  subject  by  metaphor  and  epithets, 
guarding,  however,  against  what  savours  of  poetry.  And  the 
putting  what  is  but  single  as  many,  a  thing  which  the  poets 
do l 

The  practice  of  Antimachus,  too,  is  of  service,  viz.,  speaking  of 
what  is  not  in  the  subject,2  ...  as  he  does  in  celebrating  the  hill 
Teumessus. 

Propriety,  or  the  Becoming,  comes  next. 

.Style  will  possess  the  Becoming,  if  it  be  expressive  at  once  of 
feeling  and  character,  and  in  proportion  to  the  subject-matter.8 

Chap.  VIII,  on  Rhythm,  is  of  extreme  and  permanent  importance  for 
the  fact  of  the  stress  laid  on  that  ornament.  But  the  details  would 
be  hardly  intelligible  to  any  but  Gi'eek  scholars.  The  main  precept  is 
that  prose  style  "  must  neither  possess  metre  nor  be  destitute  of  rhythm." 
Chap.  IX  deals  at  some  length  with  the  distinction  between  "loose"  and 
"  periodic  "  style,  familiar  in  all  modern  composition-books. 

1  An  illustration  is  here  omitted,  and  some  prescriptions  for  doubling  the 
article,  etc.,  which  apply  to  Greek  only. 

2  Unfortunately  A.  gives  only  the  first  line,  which  is  a  reference,  but  not 
an  illustration.     Antimachus  was  often  ranked  next  to  Homer.     The  proceeding 
referred  to  is  common  in  all  poetries  ;  and  C.  has  well  illustrated  it  by  the  famous 
descriptions  of  Paradise  in  the  Odyssey,  Lucretius;  Lactantius,  and  the  A.-S. 
Phoenix,  to  which  he  might  have  added  Tennyson's  "  island  valley  of  Avilion." 

3  This  important  definition  is  illustrated  and  commented  in  the  original  after 
a  fashion  prejudicially  but  inevitably  affected  by  the  oratorical  purpose  —  the 
consideration  how  the  audience  will  be  affected.       Elaborate   and  unusual 
words  are  only  to  be  used  when  the  speaker  or  writer  is  excited,  or  intends 
to  arouse  excitement. 


30  THE   RHETORIC 

CHAPTERS    IX-XII.  —  FIGURES 

This  subject,  so  fertile  after  a  fashion  in  later  hands,  is  dealt  with 
rather  incidentally  by  A.  He  has,  as  we  have  seen,  already  referred  to 
Metaphor  and  Simile;  and  his  examples  of  Frigidity,  Elevation,  etc.,  would 
certainly  have  been  "  figured  out "  by  the  later  rhetoricians.  He  now 
devotes  some  space  to  the  subject,  though  hardly  as  a  separate  heading, 
beginning  in  the  middle  of  Chap.  IX  (the  earlier  part  of  which  deals  gen- 
erally with  Ornament  and  once  more  with  Metaphor)  with  Antithesis, 
mainly  as  a  special  ornament  of  Periodic  style.  From  this  he  goes  to 
Parisosis,  "  Balance,"  and  to  Paromceosis,  in  which  he  includes  both  Allit- 
eration and  Homceoteleuton,  as  well  as  repetition  or  play  on  the  word.  In 
X  he  partly  returns  and  partly  continues,  dealing  yet  again  with  Metaphor, 
Simile,  and  Antithesis,  while  adding  in  Personification  and  Hyperbole, 
Paronomasia,  etc.  The  most  important  observations  in  these  two  chapters 
are  given  below.  Chap.  XII  is  a  valuable  caution  against  confusing  style 
proper  to  speech  with  style  proper  to  writing,  and  styles  proper  to  different 
kinds  of  speech  with  one  another. 

X.  1.  To  make  witty  [sparkling,  elegant]  and  brilliant  [strik- 
ing, effective]  sayings  is  the  lot  of  the  man  of  genius  or  of  the 
thoroughly  trained  man ;  to  expound  them  is  the  business  of  this 
treatise.1 

X.  6.     [To  secure  vividness  of  style]   three   things   are   to  be 
aimed  at,  metaphor,  antithesis,  and  actuality.2 

XI.  1-3.    Thus,  then,  "sparkle"  results,  as  has  been  said,  from 
analogous  metaphor,  and  from  the  production  of  a  visual  image 
setting  the  thing   actually   before  the  eyes ;  but   we   must   now 
explain  what  "  before  the  eyes  "  means,  and  how  men  must  do  to 
bring  it  about.     I  mean  that  whatsoever  carries  the  sense  of  actu- 
ality brings  things  before  our  eyes.  ...     As  Homer  also  constantly 

1  This  dictum  is  again  an  example  of  A's  pregnancy.     C.  takes  seven  English 
adjectives  to  express  do-reta  KO.I  evSoKinovvra,  and  the  word  which  I  have  rendered 
"  expound  "  (lit.,  "  show  ")  appears  to  have  the  force  of  "  analyze  and  exhibit 
in  their  sources."     W's  "clever  and  popular  sayings "  is  probably  the  closest 
possible  version  of  the  Greek. 

2  I  venture  to  prefer  this  for  tvtpyeta,  both  to  the  old  rendering  "  personifica- 
tion" and  to  C.  and  W's  "vividness  of  representation."     What  A.  means  by 
it  is  expanded  below. 


FIGURES  31 

makes  the  inanimate  alive  by  metaphors  and  is  in  all  cases1  famous 
for  producing  actuality,  as  here  : 

Again  to  the  plain  rolled  the  shameless  stone, 

and  "  the  arrow  flew"  and  "  burning  to  fly  thither,"  and  [of  spears] 
"they  stood  in  the  ground  longing  to  gorge  with  flesh,"  and  "the 
point  rushed  exulting  through  his  breast."  For  in  all  these  cases 
the  things  seem  actual  from  being  made  living. 

XII.  1.  It  must  not  escape  us  that  a  different  Style  is  appro- 
priate to  each  different  Kind.  A  man  must  not  write  as  he  speaks 
in  debate,  nor  a  politician  as  does  a  barrister.  A  man  should 
know  both ;  for  one  implies  the  art  of  speaking  correct  Greek,  and 
the  other  that  of  leaving  nothing  compulsorily  unexpressed  which 
one  wishes  to  communicate  to  others,  as  happens  to  those  who 
do  not  know  how  to  write.  The  style  of  literature  is  the  most 
exact,  that  of  debate  the  most  declamatory ;  and  of  this  [the  debating 
style]  there  are  two  kinds,  the  ethical  and  the  pathetic  [the  appeal 
to  character  and  the  appeal  to  passion]. 

In  the  observations  which  follow  it  is  pointed  out  that  the  "  epideictic  " 
style  of  Oratory,  i.e.,  that  of  speeches  composed  to  be  delivered  as  "lec- 
tures," not  to  the  Public  Assembly  or  in  the  Law  Courts,  is  nearest  to 
that  of  Literature. 


CHAPTERS   XIII-XIX.  — ARRANGEMENT 

The  last  division  of  the  book,  that  on  Taxis  or  arrangement,  has 
necessarily  less  to  do  with  general  Criticism  than  the  two  earlier  parts. 
Most  of  it  purely  concerns  the  advocate. 

1  This  translation  of  lv  irdo-i  is  Professor  Butcher's,  who  agreed  with  C.  ("in 
all  of  them  ")  and  W.  ("  always  ")  in  taking  TTOO-I  as  neuter  and  referring  to  the 
examples,  when  I  consulted  him  on  the  possibility  of  rendering  lv  irS.ffi  .  .  . 
"  is  universally  renowned."  Against  these  legions  one  fights  not. 


Ill 

FRAGMENT   OF   SIMYLUS   ON   THE   CONDITIONS   OF 
LITERARY   ACHIEVEMENT 

(Simylus  was  a  poet  of  the  Middle  Comedy  who  flourished  about  355  B.C. 
The  fragment  which  follows  only  exists  in  the  Florilegium  of  Stobaeus, 
nearly  a  thousand  years  later.  Some  have  chosen  to  see  in  it  a  mere  descrip- 
tion of  the  difficulties  of  an  Athenian  dramatist  in  getting  his  pieces  put 
on  the  stage.  But  clearly  this  would  go  only  to  the  intention  of  the 
writer ;  and  it  is  not  the  intention  of  the  writer,  but  the  significance  of 
the  writing,  which  is  of  importance  to  posterity.  In  any  case  it  is  prob- 
ably a  very  early,  and  certainly  a  very  remarkable,  "  conclusion  of  the  whole 
matter"  as  to  Literature.) 

Neither  nature  without  art,  nor  again  art  unassociated  with 
nature,  is  sufficient  to  any  one  for  any  accomplishment.  And  when 
these  two  are  brought  together  in  one,  it  is  still  needful  to  add 
appliances  and  means  [lit.,  the  chorayia  or  official  provision  of  chorus, 
etc.],  love  of  the  task,  practice,  a  suitable  occasion,  time,  and  a 
judge  [or  critic]  able  to  grasp  what  is  said.  For  by  whichsoever  of 
these  a  man  is  deserted,  he  comes  not  to  the  end  of  his  purpose. 
Nature,  will,  pains,  method  —  make  poets  good  and  wise:  number 
of  years  brings  them  nothing  but  old  age. 


IV 
DIONYSIUS   OF   HALICAENASSUS  (50-7  B.C.) 

CRITICAL  EXCERPTS   AND  AXIOMS 

• 

I.     THE    STUDY   OF    STYLE 

For  since  study  of  literature1  generally  is  so  to  say  twofold  — 
of  the  thoughts  and  of  the  words,  whereof  the  one  part  has  to  do 
most  with  the  matter,  the  other  with  the  form,  of  speech2  —  and, 
since  all  who  try  to  speak  or  write  well  pay  equal  attention  to  both 
these  branches  of  investigation,  the  division  of  knowledge  which 
leads  to  facts  and  the  wise  management  of  them  is  slow  and  hard 
to  master  for  the  young,  and  rather  an  altogether  crushing  burden 
to  beardless  boys.  For  it  is  the  business  of  a  mature  intelligence 
—  nay,  the  knowledge  of  it  is  more  suitable  to  an  age  already 
disciplined  by  grey  hairs,  —  growing  by  much  study  of  books  and 
things,  by  much  experience  and  bringing  together  of  tilings  suffered 
by  ourselves  and  others.  But  the  study  of  the  glories  and  beauties 
of  style  is  wont  to  flourish  along  with  youthful  years.  For  all 
young  minds  are  in  a  flutter  over  bellettristic  elegance,  conceiving  an 
unreasoning,  and  as  it  were  inspired,  impulse  towards  it.  But 
they  have  need  of  much  and  careful  teaching  and  guidance  if  they 
are  not  to  pour  out  any  unsuitable  words  that  come  upon  their 
tongues,  nor  to  heap  phrases  together  higgledy-piggledy,  but  to  use  a 

1  Here  and  else  where — it  may  be  well  to  repeat  —  tlie  meanings  of  "  speech  " 
and  "literature"  were  probably  both,  at  least  in  some  degree,  present  even  to 
the  writer's  mind.     They  are  certainly  both  important  for  us. 

2  The  opposition  of  wpaKTi/cds  and  XeKTHc6s  is  common  enough,  and  usually 
easy  to  translate.     Here,  however,  without  stretching  the  latter  a  little,  it  is 
hard  to  avoid  apparently  tautologous  repetition  (for  there  is  repetition  which  is 
not  tautologous). 

33 


34  DIONYSIUS  OF  HALICARNASSUS 

selection  of   pure  and  genuine  words,  and  arrange  them  in  com- 
position providing  a  mixture  of  dignity  and  sweetness. 

He  will  himself  attempt  to  supply  the  want  of  a  treatise  on  such  Com- 
position and  follow  it  by  one  on  The  Choice  of  Words. 

De  Comp.  Verb.  i. 

H.     THE   SOURCES   OF  BEAUTY 

And  what  is  tfie  head  and  front  of  my  argument  ?  That  with  the 
conjunction  of  letters  comes  the  varied  composition  of  syllables, 
and  with  the  composition  of  syllables  the  omniform  nature  of  words, 
and  with  the  harmonious  arrangement  of  words  comes  Literature  in 
its  many  kinds.  So  that  it  is  necessary  that  the  phrase  be  beauti- 
ful in  which  there  are  beautiful  words,  and  that  of  beautiful  words 
beautiful  syllables  and  letters  be  the  causes,  and  a  charming  style 
must  result  from  what  charms  the  ear.  And  just  so  the  particular 
differences  of  words  and  syllables  and  letters,  by  which  the  character 
and  the  passions  and  the  dispositions  and  the  deeds  of  persons, 
and  all  thereto  appertaining,  are  set  forth,  must  acquire  their 
properties  from  the  first  foundation  of  the  letters. 

Ibid,  xvi  (p.  96,  ed.  Ileiske). 

HI.     THE   IMPORTANCE    OF   RHYTHM   IN   PROSE 

My  reasons  for  making  these  remarks  \on  the  character  of  certain 
feef\  are  as  follows: — for  I  have  not  undertaken  to  discuss  the 
subject  of  rhythm  and  metre  idly,  but  of  necessity.  Through 
rhythms  that  have  nobility,  and  dignity,  and  greatness,  composition 
itself  becomes  dignified,  and  firm,  and  magnificent;  but  by  mean 
and  paltry  ones  it  loses  greatness  and  dignity,  whether  the  rhythms 
be  taken  by  themselves,  or  arranged  conjointly  and  symphonically. 
Therefore,  if  we  can  succeed  in  composing  our  style  of  all  the  best 
rhythms,  we  shall  have  all  we  can  pray  for ;  but  if  we  are  forced 
to  mix  the  worse  with  the  better  (as  generally  happens  —  for 
chance  decides  the  imposition  of  names  on  things)  we  must  dispose 


THE  SUPREMACY  OF  VARIETY  35 

them  with  heed  to  the  rules  of  art,  and  smuggle  our  inanities  under 
cover  of  beautiful  composition,  giving  ourselves  fearless  licence. 
For  no  rhythm  whatever  is  banished 1  from  unmetred  composition 
any  more  than  from  that  in  metre. 

Ibid,  xviii  (pp.  111-112  Reiske). 

IV.     THE   SUPREMACY   OF   VARIETY 

That  style  is  best  of  all  which  has  most  reliefs  and  changes  of 
harmony,  —  when  part  is  arranged  in  period  and  part  loosely  ;  when 
one  period  is  composed  of  many  clauses  and  another  of  fewer ; 
when  of  the  clauses  themselves  this  is  short  and  that  long,  this 
aiming  at  nervous  intensity,  that  more  languid,  a  third  rigidly  close 
to  the  sense ;  when  the  rhythms  are  different,  the  figures  of  all 
kinds;  and  when  the  very  tensions  and  intonations  of  the  voice 
vary  so  as  to  cheat  weariness  by  their  multiplicity. 

Ibid,  xix  (p.  133  Reiske). 

V.     THE    UPSTART   ASIATIC    STYLE 

For  in  the  times  before  us  classical  and  philosophic  Ehetoric  was 
put  down,  pelted  with  mud,  and  subjected  to  gross  insults.  It 
began  to  lose  breath  and  flesh  about  the  death  of  Alexander  of 
Macedon ;  and  towards  our  own  day  it  was  within  a  little  of  utter 
disappearance.  But  another  kind  of  rhetoric,  slipping  into  its 
appointed  place,  intolerable  in  its  theatrical  impudence,  dissolute, 
without  tincture  of  philosophy  or  any  other  liberal  study,  stealthily 
deluding  the  ignorance  of  the  vulgar,  not  merely  outwent  the 
first  in  wealth  and  luxury  and  fulness  of  outward  seeming,  but 
drew  to  itself  those  civic  honours  and  eminences  which  philo- 
sophical Rhetoric  ought  to  have  had.  And  vulgar  it  was  and 
offensive  ;  and  it  made  Greece  like  unto  the  households  of  debauchees 
and  worthless  wretches.  For  as  in  these  the  free  and  virtuous  wife 

1  Reading  dTreXatWrcu  as  in  R.'s  note;  dTroXatferot.  the  reading  of  his  text, 
would  make  nonsense  of  this  striking  dictum. 


36  DIONYSIUS  OF  HALICARXASSUS 

sits  mistress  of  nothing  that  is  really  hers,  while  a  brainless  con- 
cubine, bringing  ruin  to  the  life  of  the  house,  thinks  to  rule  it 
all,  and  insults  and  browbeats  the  wife  —  so  in  every  city,  and 
(which  was  the  worst  evil  of  all)  even  not  least  in  those  best 
instructed,  the  classical,  the  native  Attic  Muse,  had  taken  an 
unhonoured  place,  being  driven  from  her  proper  goods,  while  some 
Lycian,  or  Phrygian,  or  Carian  baggage,  imported  yesterday  or  the 
day  before  from  some  purlieu  of  Asia,  thought  herself  worthy  to 
direct  the  affairs  of  Grecian  cities,  chasing  her  rival  from  public  busi- 
ness—  the  dunce  banishing  the  philosopher,  the  wanton  expelling 

the  chaste. 

De  Oratoribus  Antiquis,  Preface. 


'  VI.     CRITICISM  OF  PLATO 

(This  and  the  following  are  given,  not  as  specimens  of  infallible  critic- 
ism, but  as  examples  of  criticism,  vigorous  and  acute  from  its  own  point 
of  view,  and  such  as  we  have  too  seldom  from  ancient  writers.) 

Plato's  style  aims  at  being  a  mixture  of  the  two  kinds,  the  lofty 
and  the  plain :  but  it  is  not  equally  happy  in  the  two  respects. 
When  it  practises  plain  and  simple  and  unadorned  phrase,  it  is 
singularly  pleasant  and  agreeable  to  men.  For  it  becomes  bright 
and  pellucid  enough  in  all  conscience,  like  the  clearest  of  fountains, 
and  it  is  also  exact  and  subtle  beyond  any  other  of  the  like  kind. 
It  keeps  to  usual  words,  and  practises  perspicuity,  disdaining 
plastered-on  ornament.  The  patina  of  its  classical  antiquity  gently 
and  by  stealth  overruns  it,  giving  a  bloom  of  cheerfulness  and 
vigour  and  beauty  ;  as  if  from  fragrant  meadows,  a  sweet  breeze  of 
odour  is  wafted  from  it,  and  its  fluency  is  no  more  mere  prattle 
than  its  ornateness  is  theatrical.  But  when,  as  it  often  does,  it 
rushes  headlong  into  verbosity  and  fine  writing,  it  does  itself  much 
injustice.  For  it  then  shows  lack  of  charm,  faults  of  Greek,  even 
coarseness  of  texture :  it  darkens  clearness  and  turns  it  into 
obscurity,  it  makes  the  meaning  drag  by  wiredrawing  it ;  and  when, 
terseness  is  required,  it  pours  forth  tasteless  circumlocutions  to 
show  off  copiousness  of  vocabulary.  Nay,  despising  ordinary 


CRITICISM  OF   THUCYDIDES  37 

language,  and  that  which  is  in  common  use,  it  goes  in  quest  of  the 
manufactured,  the  foreign,  the  archaic.  But  it  is  most  tempest- 
tossed  in  the  use  of  Figures  —  for  it  is  excessive  in  epithets,  unsea- 
sonable in  metonymies,  rough  and  neglectful  of  analogy  in  metaphors, 
swaddled  in  allegories  long,  numerous,  ill-proportioned,  and  out  of 
place.'  Unseasonably  also,  and  in  a  puerile  manner,  it  luxuriates 
in  poetical  figures  (particularly  in  those  of  Gorgias a)  which  produce 
the  uttermost  disgust :  and  "  in  such  things  he  has  much  of  the 
mystery-monger,"  as  Demetrius  Phalereus  and  many  others  have 
said;  for  "not  mine  the  story." 

This  half  apology  —  the  last  words  are  Euripidean  —  is  followed  by  a 
more  elaborate  one  explaining  the  grounds  of  D's  objection  to  P's  ornater 
passages.  He  thinks  (Longinus  knew  better,  v.  inf.)  that  P.  "  should  have 
guarded  against  any  censure,"  and  almost  blushes  as  he  repeats  the 
philosopher's  own  confession  that  he  is  occasionally  "  dithyrambic."  D. 
thought  well  enough  of  his  criticism  to  quote  it  at  length  from  his  De 
Admiranda  Vi  Demosthenis,  where  it  first  appears,  in  his  letter  to  Cn. 
Pompeius,  §  2.  He  does  the  same  (making  some  alterations)  in  the  corre- 
sponding section  of  his  second  letter  to  Ammseus,  with  the  following  crit- 
icism on  Thucydides,  which  had  first  appeared  in  his  formal  Judgment  of 
the  greatest  of  Greek  historians. 


VII.     CRITICISM   OF  THUCYDIDES 

For  Thucydides,  coming  after  him  [Herodotus]  and  the  others 
formerly  mentioned,  and  taking  a  synoptic  view  of  the  merits  which 
each  of  them  possessed,  set  himself  to  introduce  into  historical 
practice  a  new  kind  of  style,  neither  wholly  prose  nor  completely 
metrical,  but  something  common  to  and  compounded  of  both.  In 
his  choice  of  words  he  proceeds  by  adopting  a  figurative,  precious,2 
archaic  diction,  instead  of  that  common  and  usual  with  the  men 
of  his  time ;  in  his  expressions,8  in  which  he  especially  wished 
to  differ  from4  his  predecessors,  by  taking  the  greatest  possible 
trouble  with  them.  Now  he  makes  a  sentence  out  of  a  word  ;  now 
he  compresses  a  sentence  into  a  word ;  now  again  he  turns  a  verbal 

1  See  Aristotle,  supra,  and  Longinus,  infra.  3  Or,  "construction." 

2  Or,  "  foreign."  *  Or,  "  excel" 


38  DIONYSIUS  OF  HALICARNASSUS 

form  into  a  noun,  or  makes  a  noun  a  verb.  He  turns  the  uses  of 
these  parts  of  speech  themselves  upside  down,  so  that  a  proper 
name  becomes  common,  actives  become  passive,  and  vice  versa.1  He 
confounds  the  natures  of  the  plural  and  the  singular ;  and  predicates 
them  of  one  another,  also  conjoining  masculine  with  feminine, 
feminine  with  masculine  and  neuter,  in  such  a  way  that  the  natural 
sequence  is  destroyed.  He  twists  the  cases  of  nouns  and  parti- 
ciples now  to  the  thing  signified  away  from  the  form  of  the  phrase, 
now  the  other  way ;  and  he  abuses  conjunctions  and  prepositions,  and 
the  connections  that  set  out  the  power  of  words,  just  as  if  he  were 
a  poet.  You  will  find  innumerable  expressions  in  him  travestied, 
by  changes  of  person  and  confusions  of  tense  and  metaphorically 
topical  meanings,  into  the  likeness  of  solecisms ;  and  as  many  in 
which  things  and  persons  change  places,  in  which  the  multiplicity 
of  parentheses  puts  off  the  sequence  of  his  enthymemes  and  his 
deliverances  of  thought,  together  with  incorrectness,  complexity, 
hardness  to  unravel,  and  all  their  kind.  You  will  find  also  many 
theatrical  figures  in  him  —  the  parisoses,  etc.,  in  which  Gorgias  and 
others  of  his  contemporaries  revelled.  His  most  obvious  and  char- 
acteristic endeavour  is  to  put  the  most  meaning  in  the  fewest  words, 
to  compress  many  thoughts  in  one,  and  to  leave  the  hearer  in 
expectation  of  more.  Whence  the  brief  becomes  the  obscure.  To 
sum  up  :  there  are  four  organic  constituents  of  the  style  of  Thu- 
cydides,  poetical  vocabulary,  variety  of  figures,  a  rough  harmony, 
a  rapid  narration.  Its  "  colours  "  are  sinewiness,  pungency,  com- 
pression, austerity,  weight,  intensity,  the  power  of  striking  awe, 
and  above  all  that  of  moving  the  passions  generally. 

1  I  think  Professor  Rhys  Roberts  is  right  in  substituting  the  text  of  the  Judg- 
ment here  for  that  in  the  Letter,  which  is  confused  or  tautologous. 


V 

PHILOSTRATUS   ON   IMAGINATION 

(Philostratus  (A.D.  170?-250?)  wrote  much  of  divers  kinds.  The 
following  passage  —  generally  acknowledged  to  be  the  oldest  locus  for 
"  Imagination "  in  the  full  modern  sense  —  occurs  in  his  Life  of  the 
philosopher-charlatan  Apollouius  of  Tyana  (vi.  19),  and  is  put  in  his 
mouth.) 

Imagination,  a  wiser  craftsmistress  than  Imitation,  has  done  this. 
For  Imitation  will  fashion  what  she  sees,  but  Imagination  what 
she  has  not  seen,  supposing  it  according  to  the  analogy  of  the  Real. 
Moreover,  a  sudden  shock  will  piit  Imitation's  hand  out,  but  not 
Imagination's.  For  she  will  proceed  undisturbed  to  what  she  has, 
by  supposition,  set  before  her,  and  conceived. 


VI 

LUCIAN  (A.D.  1257-210?)  ON  PRECIOUS  AND  ECCENTRIC 

STYLE 

(Conclusion  of  the  Lexiphanes.) 

If  then  you  wish  to  obtain  a  real  reputation  for  your  speeches 
among  people  at  large,  fly  from,  and  turn  your  back  on,  all  such 
stuff  as  this.  Begin  with  the  best  poets,  and  read  them  with 
a  tutor ;  then  go  to  the  orators,  and,  after  feeding  yourself  with 
them,  proceed  in  due  season  to  the  works  of  Thucydides  and  Plato, 
having  also  taken  much  exercise  in  graceful  comedy  and  the  tragic 
stateliness.  For  when  you  have  culled  all  the  fairest  flowers  from 

39 


40  LUCIAN 

these,  you  will  be  something  of  a  man  of  letters  [or  "orator"]1; 
whereas  now  you  have  unconsciously  made  yourself  like  unto  the 
work  of  the  image  makers  in  the  market  place,  smeared  with 
vermilion  and  blue  outside,  but  inwardly  of  crumbling  clay.  .  .  .  But 
above  all  I  bid  you  remember  not  to  imitate  the  worst  tricks  of 
modern  sophists,  and,  as  it  were,  nibble  at  and  chew  them  as  you  do 
now ;  but  to  tread  them  under  foot  and  imitate  the  classical  models. 
Neither  let  the  windflowers  of  speech  beguile  you ;  but,  like  an 
athlete  in  training,  accustom  yourself  to  solid  nourishment.  Above 
all,  sacrifice  to  the  Graces  and  to  Perspicuity,  whom  you  have 
utterly  deserted.  Say  "  Avaunt !  "  to  bombast  and  magniloquence 
and  spite  and  snorting  and  shrieking  and  nagging  at  others'  work 
and  thinking  that  you  will  be  first  if  you  rail  at  everybody  else. 
Moreover,  this  is  not  the  least  but  the  greatest  of  your  faults,  that 
you  do  not  first  prepare  the  meaning  of  your  phrase  and  then  orna- 
ment it  with  words  and  names,  but,  if  you  take  a  fancy  to  some 
outlandish  term  which  you  have  found  or  yourself  invented,  you 
try  to  tack  a  meaning  on  to  it,  and  think  yourself  injured  if  you 
cannot  stuff  it  in  somewhere,  even  if  it  be  superfluous  to  the  subject 
of  discourse.2 

1  In  Greek,  especially  in  this  later  Greek,  "  orator  "  and  "  man  of  letters," 
"  literature"  and  "  speeches,"  are  often  used  almost  convertibly. 

2  The  story  is  actually  told  of  the  late  M.  Paul  de  Saint- Victor,  that  he  used, 
when  sitting  down  to  write,  to  put  words  that  had  struck  his  fancy  at  intervals 
over  the  sheet,  and  write  his  matter  in  and  up  to  them. 


VII 

LONGINUS    (A.D.  213  ?-273) 

(Whether  the  treatise  liepl  "Yi/xjvs  (or,  as  it  is  traditionally  and  perhaps 
necessarily  but  inexactly  translated,  On  the  Sublime)  was  actually  written 
by  the  rhetorician  Longinus,  who  acted  as  a  kind  of  prime  minister  to 
Queen  Zenobia  of  Palmyra,  and  was  put  to  death  by  the  Emperor  Aure- 
lian,  need  not  be  here  discussed.  There  is  no  MS.  of  it  older  than  the 
10th  century,  and  no  certain  refei'ence  to  it  older  than  the  13th.  It  was 
published  in  the  middle  of  the  16th  by  Robortello,  was  not  very  much 
noticed  at  first,  acquired  immense,  if  sometimes  strangely  perverted, 
authority  during  the  17th  and  18th,  was  a  little  neglected  during  the 
Romantic  movement,  but  for  some  time  .past  has  been  increasingly  studied. 
The  author,  whoever  he  was,  begins  with  some  unfavourable  criticism 
on  a  former  handling  of  his  subject  by  a  certain  Csecilius,  and  proceeds 
(I.  4)  as  follows  :) 

In  writing  to  you,  good  friend,  who  are  well  skilled  in  culture, 
I  need  hardly  premise  in  many  words  that  Sublimity  is  a  certain 
consummateness  and  preeminence  of  phrase,  and  that  the  greatest 
poets  and  prose  writers  gained  the  first  rank,  and  grasped  an 
eternity  of  fame,  by  no  other  means  than  this.  FOR  WHAT  is  OUT 

OF    THE   COMMON   LEADS   AN   AUDIENCE,   NOT   TO   PERSUASION,    BUT   TO 

ECSTASY  [or  "  transport "].  The  startling  effect  of  the  Wonderful 
always  and  everywhere  has  the  better  of  the  merely  persuasive  and 
the  merely  pleasing ;  for  to  be  persuaded  depends,  as  a  rule,  on  our- 
selves, but  this  other  quality  applies  irresistible  authority  and 
force,  and  gets  the  better  of  all  hearers.  Inventive  skill,  orderly 
disposition  of  matter,  we  see  struggling  to  appear  as  the  effect,  not 
of  this  or  that  thing,  but  of  the  whole  tissue  of  the  work  in  letters. 
But  the  Sublime,  shooting  forth  at  the  nick  of  time,  scatters  every- 
thing like  a  levin  bolt  and  shows  the  whole  power  of  the  author 

[orator]  at  once. 

41 


42  LONGINUS 


II-IV 

This  chapter  begins  with  a  discussion  of  the  sempiternal  question,  how 
far  "  rules  "  can  compass  the  Sublime  and  other  artistic  excellences.  Longi- 
nus  takes  the  obvious  and  most  satisf actoiy  —  if  still  unsatisfactory  —  line 
that  Nature  must  supply,  but  that  Art  can  and  should  regulate.  The 
passage,  however,  breaks  off  in  the  middle,  and  two  leaves  of  the  MS.  are 
totally  lost.  It  begins  again  abruptly  with  a  quotation  (identified  for  us 
by  one  of  the  late  references  above  noticed)  from  the  Orithyia  of  yEschylus. 

"  And  let  them  stop  (?)  the  long  flash  of  the  furnace  !  For  if  I 
can  spy  one  hearth-holding  spark,  I  will  twist  a  curly  torrent  [of 
wind,  or  flame  ?]  till  I  set  the  very  roof  in  a  blaze,  and  burn  it  to  a 
cinder.  And  I  have  not  yet  sung  my  noblest  song."  * 

To  this  L. — thereby  no  doubt  commending  himself  to  the  18th  cen- 
tury—  wholly  objects  as  Tra/aar/oaywSov,  "  sham-tragic  "  :  and  in  Chaps.  Ill 
and  IV  of  our  text  he  proceeds  to  stigmatize  CTTO//.<£OS,  ("  bombast,"  "  mouth- 
ing "),  TO  oiStlv  ("  tumidity  "),  -^avvot  ("  swellings  "),  TO  ^cipa/awSes  ("boyish- 
ness "),  if/vxporrjs  ("frigidity,"  v.  sup.),  TO  KaKo^rjXov  ("  affectation "),  and 
TO  TrapfvOvpcrov  ("  the  thrusting  in  of  the  Bacchic  thyrsus  where  it  is  not 
required,"  "  sham  enthusiasm  ").  He  produces  numerous  examples  of  these 
various  forms  of  the  false -Sublime,  not  merely  from  tragedians  and  poets, 
but  from  prose-writers,  especially  from  the  historian  Timseus,  and  even 
from  Herodotus  and  Xenophon.  From  these  sometimes  dubious  examples 
he  generalizes,  with  admirable  sense,  in  the  following  chapters,  which  must 
be  given  whole. 

V-VI 

All  these  undignified  things  grow  as  a  fungus  on  letters,  owing 
to  one  single  reason  —  that  quest  after  novelty  in  thought  which 
leads  our  folk  of  to-day  so  mad  a  dance  (TTC/JI  o  8r)  /taXio-To.  nopv- 
/3avTto>o-iv  01  vvv).  For  good  and  evil  generally  come  to  us  from  the 

1  This  is  obviously  from  a  sort  of  boast  of  his  powers  by  Boreas,  Orithyia's 
lover.  I  used  to  think,  in  common  with  the  usual  translators,  that  the  fine 
phrase  Tr\fKTdvt)i>  X«M<W°°"  referred  to  the  licking,  twisting  tongue  of  flame. 
But  now,  it  seems  to  me  better  to  take  it  of  the  curling  bellows-blast  of  wind, 
wherewith  Boreas  boasts  himself  able  to  revive,  for  destructive  purposes,  the 
spark  which  men  have  tried  to  curfew. 


ON   THE  SUBLIME  43 

same  source.  As  beauty  and  height,  aye,  and  fascination  of  render- 
ing, are  contributory  to  the  successful  arrangement  of  composition, 
so  these  very  things  are  the  beginnings  and  understructure,  not 
merely  of  felicity,  but  of  its  opposite.  So  is  it  with  paraphrase,  and 
hyperbole,  and  the  use  of  the  plural x :  but  we  shall  show  the 
dangers  of  this  later.  We  must  now  investigate,  and  suggest  a 
way  of  escaping,  the  vices  that  alloy  the  sublime.  (VI)  And  there 
is  such  a  way,  0  my  friend,  if,  above  all,  we  could  achieve  a  clear 
understanding  and  critical  knowledge  of  the  true  Sublime.  Yet 
this  is  hard  to  catch ;  FOB  THE  JUDGMENT  OF  LITERATURE  is  THE 
FINAL  AFTER-GROWTH  OF  MUCH  ENDEAVOUR  :  nevertheless,  to  give, 
as  it  were,  the  word  of  command,  one  may  perhaps  diagnose  these 
matters  somewhat  in  this  way. 

In  Chap.  VII,  L.  considers  further  the  difference  of  the  true  and  false 
Sublime,  and  decides  that  the  best  criterion  of  the  true  is,  that  it  pro- 
duces the  effect  of  transport  not  once  only,  but  again  and  again,  on  intel- 
ligent and  experienced  readers  of  the  most  different  circumstances.  For, 
he  says, 

Our  souls  are  somehow  naturally  exalted  by  the  true  Sublime  ; 
and,  as  if  rearing  or  prancing  [lit.,  taking  a  prancing  elevation, 
yavpov  avdvTrjpM,  the  adjective  being  specially  used  of  a  skittish 
horse],  are  filled  with  joy  and  exultation,  as  if  themselves  had 
produced  what  they  hear. 

VIII  enters  upon  the  sources  of  sublime  expression:  perhaps  it  would 
have  obviated  an  objection  if  L.  had  said  "  the  forms  which  this  expression 
takes,"  or  "the  ways  in  which  it  is  attainable."  They  are,  first,  weighty 
and  solid  thought ;  secondly,  intense  passion ;  (both  of  which  are,  as  a 
rule,  congenital) ;  thirdly,  Figures ;  fourthly,  diction  or  phrase ;  and 
fifthly,  distinguished  composition.  Caecilius  is  blamed  for  having  omitted 
passion,  which  L.  thinks  of  the  very  first  importance : 

I  should  cheerfully  lay  it  down  that  there  is  nothing  so  eloquent 
as  real  passion,  standing  where  it  ought,  in  enthusiastic  afflatus  of 
inspired  madness,  and  filling  the  phrase  with  a  sort  of  Delphic 
rapture. 

1  I  should  like  to  translate  ra  ir\i}6vvTiK<i  "pleonasm,"  but  the  above  is  the 
orthodox  rendering. 


44  LONGINUS 


IX 

These  "  sources "  are  then  discussed  seriatim,  and  -with  examples  — 
greatness  of  thought  [formerly  dSpeTnJ/SoXov,  now  /ityoAo^ves]  still  holding 
pride  of  place.  A  very  remarkable  passage  refers  to  Moses,  "  the  legis- 
lator of  the  Jews,  not  the  first  comer,"  and  his  "  Let  there  be  light";  but 
most  of  the  favourable  instances  are  taken. from  Homer.  And  then  fol- 
lows, in  the  shape  of  a  comparatively  unfavourable  criticism  of  the  Odyssey, 
one  of  the  most  capital  and  characteristic  passages  of  the  whole,  as  illus- 
trating the  Classical  distrust  of,  and  distaste  for,  the  Romantic,  and  the 
comparatively  low  estimate  of  manners  and  character. 

Yet  he  shows  in  the  Odyssey  (a  matter  to  which  we  must  give 
attention  for  many  reasons)  that,  when  a  great  nature  is  now  in  its 
decline,  the  love  of  the  mythical  is  a  senile  characteristic.  For  that 
he  took  the  Odyssey  as  his  second  subject  of  composition,  is  clear 
both  from  many  other  reasons  and  because  he  puts  in  scraps  of  the 
tale  of  Troy  as  episodes  of  the  Odyssey ;  nay,  from  his  even  bestow- 
ing on  his  heroes  epitaphs  and  dirges,  as  if  devised  beforehand. 
For  the  Odyssey  is  nothing  but  an  epilogue  of  the  Iliad  \_0d.  iii. 
109-111  quoted].  For  the  same  reason,  I  suppose,  in  the  case  of 
the  Iliad,  written  at  the  top  of  his  inspiration,  he  has  made  the 
whole  body  of  the  story  dramatic  and  combative,  that  of  the  Odyssey 
narrative  for  the  most  part,  as  is  proper  to  old  age.  Whence,  in  the 
Odijssey,  one  might  liken  Homer  to  the  setting  sun,  whose  greatness 
remains,  divorced  from  its  intensity.  For  he  does  not  here  keep 
the  tone  equal  to  that  of  the  Trojan  pieces,  nor  maintain  his 
heights  equally,  impatient  of  collapse  or  bathos,  nor  preserve  the 
steady  profusion  of  redoubled  passions,  nor  yet  the  qualities  of 
rapid  transition,  of  practical  reality,1  of  fertile  images  drawn  from 
truth.  But,  as  if  the  Ocean  were  withdrawing  into  itself  and  leaving 
the  shore  bare  within  its  own  bounds,  there  is  shown  the  ebb  of 
greatness,  and  a  mind  wandering  in  the  mythical  and  the  incredible. 
And  when  I  say  this,  I  do  not  forget  the  storms  in  the  Odyssey,  and 
the  Cyclops  episode,  and  some  other  things.  I  speak  of  old  age,  but 
of  the  old  age  of  Homer.  Yet  everywhere  the  fabulous  has  the 

1  VO\ITIK.I>V,  "statesmanlike,"  "keeping  close  to  the  actualities  of  war  and 
politics  and  life  generally." 


ON  THE  SUBLIME  45 

better  of  the  practical.  And  I  have  digressed  thus  in  order  to  show 
how  easily  the  noblest  natures  in  their  decline  turn  aside  to  twaddle 
—  such  as  the  winds  in  the  wine-skin,  and  the  herd  of  Circe  (the 
"weeping  piglings  "  as  Zoilus  called  them),  and  Zeus  as  the  nestling 
of  the  doves,  and  the  ten  days'  fast  on  the  wreck,  and  the  incredible 
slaughter  of  the  suitors.  For  what  else  can  we  call  these  things 
but  dreams  —  if  in  truth  dreams  of  Zeus  himself  ?  And  it  is  worth 
remarking  on  the  Odyssey,  in  the  second  place,  that  you  may  observe 
how  this  decline  of  passion,  in  great  poets  and  prose-writers,  relieves 
itself  in  character-drawing  [or  manners-painting].  For  the  accurate 
observations  of  life  and  manners  in  and  about  Odysseus'  palace 
amount  to  a  kind  of  comedy  of  manners. 

In  X,  L.  returns  to  his  investigation  of  the  "  sources,"  or  contributory 
elements,  of  Sublimity.  He  quotes  (and  in  so  doing  has  most  fortunately 
saved  for  us)  the  great  ode  of  Sappho  to  her  beloved,  as  an  example  of 
"  selection  and  combination  "  of  striking  traits.  And  he  follows  this  up 
with  divers  other  examples,  favourable  and  unfavourable.  He  then  passes, 
in  XI  and  following  chapters,  to  the  rhetorical  Figure  (or  rather  method) 
called  auxesis  —  the  common  English  rendering  of  which,  "Amplification," 
is  not  very  instructive.  He  himself  defines  it  (just  before  another  of 
the  long  and  annoying  gaps  in  the  MS.)  after  a  fashion  suggestive  of,  and 
beyond  doubt  suggesting,  the  favourite  method  of  Burke,  as  — 

Filling  in  the  subject  from  all  analogous  and  relevant  a  parts  and 
topics,  strengthening  the  general  arrangement  by  dwelling  on  these  — 

Unluckily  another  gap  in  the  MS.  occurs  here  ;  and  when  it  ceases,  we 
find  ourselves  in  the  midst,  apparently,  of  a  comparison  between  Plato  and 
Demosthenes,  which  almost  immediately  shifts  into  one  between  Demo- 
sthenes and  Cicero.  This  is  fortunately  complete,  and  is  of  the  utmost 
value,  Greek  writers  as  a  rule,  whether  from  pride  or  for  some  other  reason, 
avoiding  the  treatment  of  Latin  literature. 

It  seems  to  me  (if  we  as  Greeks  may  be  allowed  to  know  any- 
thing about  the  matter)  that  there  is  in  the  same  way  a  cross- 
difference  2  between  Cicero  and  Demosthenes  in  their  altitudes. 


v  is  usually  translated  "  constituent."     I  prefer  to  interpret  it  in 
accordance  rather  with  the  usual  meaning  of  the  adjective  ^/x^ep^s. 

2  TrapaXXdrret,  where  I  take  the  preposition  to  suggest  that  the  eminence  of  D. 
in  one  respect  is  made  up  by  that  of  C.  in  another. 


46  LONGINUS 

For  the  latter  has  usually  a  rugged  loftiness,  Cicero  a  voluminous 
effusion.  Our  man,  in  his  ability  at  once  to  set  on  fire  and  hurry 
along  everything  with  his  force,  his  swiftness,  his  vigour,  and  his 
intensity,  may  be  likened  to  a  meteor  or  thunderbolt,  while  Cicero 
is  like  an  all-embracing  conflagration,  devouring  and  consuming  in 
every  direction,  having  a  mighty  reserve  of  flame  distributed  now 
hither  now  thither,  and  maintaining  itself  by  successive  reinforce- 
ments. You  Romans  are  better  judges  of  appeal  here.  But  the 
special  moment  of  the  Demosthenic  high-strung  sublimity  is  that 
of  intensity  and  violent  passion,  where  the  hearer  is  to  be  utterly 
carried  out  of  himself  ;  of  the  Ciceronian,  volume,  where  he  is  to  be 
saturated  with  commonplaces,  and  perorations,  and  digressions,  and 
descriptions  and  show-passages  of  all  kinds.  For  the  [Ciceronian] 
style  is  suitable  to  these,  and  to  history,  and  natural  history,  and  not 
a  few  other  kinds. 

XIII  returns  to  Plato,  and,  praising  him  for  his  combination  of  ease  and 
sublimity,  diverges  again  to  recommend  as  a  "source"  of  the  sublime  the 
"imitation  and  emulation"  —  /uju^o-is  /cat  £77X0)0-15 —  of  great  prose- writers 
and  poets.  This  is  an  important  passage  because,  though  in  itself  quite 
sound  and  carefully  distinguishing  "  imitation  "  from  "  theft  "  —  p.ip.rpTi<i 
from  KXoTnj  [t\  inf.  on  Vida]  —  it  shows  us  how  the  confusion  was  reached 
later.  But  the  next  chapter  (XIV)  supplies  what  should  have  been  a  full 
antidote  to  any  possible  bane. 

It  will  be  good  then  for  us  to  body  forth  mentally,  when  we  are  at 
work  on  something  that  needs  sublimity  of  thought  and  expression, 
how  Homer  would  have  said  it,  how  Plato,  or  Demosthenes,  or  in 
history  Thucydides,  would  have  given  it  exaltation.  For  these 
great  figures,  presenting  themselves  to  us  on  high  as  objects  of 
emulation,  will  somehow  or  other  raise  our  souls  to  the  imagined 
standard.  It  will  be  still  better  if,  in  addition,  we  set  a  sketch 
before  our  minds  of  how  Homer  and  Demosthenes  would  have  been 
affected,  as  actual  hearers  or  readers  of  what  we  have  said.  For  it 
is  trying  ourselves  really  high  to  suppose  such  a  tribunal,  such  a 
theatre,  for  our  own  work,  and  to  stand  a  mock  audit 1  of  our  writ- 
ings with  such  hearers  for  judges  and  assessors.  It  will  spur  you 

1  Reading  7re7ratx0<«  as  usual,  I  think  this  version  may  do. 


ON  THE   SUBLIME  47 

on  yet  more,  if  you  add  further  "  How  will  my  writing  strike  each 
next  age  ?  "  And  if  any  one  be  made,  in  the  very  fact  of  this, 
fearful  of  speaking,  as  it  were,  to  audiences  beyond  his  own  life  and 
time,1  the  conceptions  of  such  a  one's  mind  must  be,  so  to  say, 
unfinished  and  blind  abortions,  not  accomplished  to  the  point  of 
posthumous  fame-worthiness. 

At  the  beginning  of  Chap.  XV  Longinus  excites  our  hopes  by  mentioning 
<£avTacr<ai,  "  fancies,"  "  images,"  which  he  says  some  also  call  eiSwAoTroiuu, 
"  fictions  of  the  mind,"  as  "  especially  useful  in  furnishing  "  Sublimity  and 
its  congeners.  We  find,  however,  very  quickly,  that  he  is  not  speaking  of 
"  imagination  "  in  the  full  modern  sense,  but  only  of  description  so  vivid 
that  the  writer  "  seems  actually  to  see  what  he  describes  and  to  place  it 
before  the  eyes  of  his  readers  "  or  hearers.  And  the  chapter,  which  is  a 
long  one,  contains  numerous  examples  of  this  feat  from  the  Greek  poets 
and  prose-writers.  L.  then  turns  once  more  to  the  subject  of  Figures :  and 
for  nearly  the  whole  of  no  less  than  seventeen  chapters,  XVI-XXXII, 
devotes  himself  to  them,  or  some  of  them,  never  indeed  indulging  in  the 
puerile  multiplication  and  hairsplitting  which  is  too  common  and  of 
which  Quintilian  speaks  scornfully,  but  sometimes  descending  to  a  lower 
level  than  that  of  general  Criticism.  Some  very  important  and  striking 
passages  must,  however,  be  excerpted  from  this  part  of  the  book. 

XVII.  i.  Somehow  or  other  Figures  naturally  fight  on  the  side 
of  Sublimity,  and  in  turn  receive  a  wonderful  reinforcement  from  it. 

A  Figure  looks  best  when  it  escapes  one's  notice  that  it  is  a  Figure. 

XXVIII.  i;  XXIX.  i.  No  one,  I  think,  will  doubt  that  Peri- 
phrasis is  a  source  of  Sublimity.  For  as  in  music  the  dominant  note 
is  more  sweetly  brought  out  by  accompanying  trills  and  harmonies 2 
—  so  periphrasis  often  harmonizes  with  the  main  thing  said,  and 
gives  it  symphonic  order  to  a  great  extent,  especially  if  it  is 
not  blatant  and  discordant  but  sweetly  attempered.  .  .  .  Yet 

1  The  meaning  of  the  original  here  is  a  little  ambiguous,  and  I  have  thought 
it  better  to  leave  it  so  than  to  incline  the  English  to  one  side  or  the  other.     The 
Greek  may  refer  to  shrinking  (with  the  characteristic  Hellenic  fear  of  Nemesis) 
from  the  attempt  to  speak  to  posterity  ;  or  it  may  admit  the  lower  interpretation 
of  prudential  reluctance  to  speak  above  the  heads  of  the  actual  readers. 

2  I  am  no  musician  myself,  and  even  those  who  know  both  Greek  and  music 
are  often  at  much  variance  in  "  combining  their  information."     But  this  version 
of  Trapafjiuvuv  and  nvpios  (j>66yyos  at  least  falls  in  logically  with  the  context. 


48  LOXGINUS 

periphrasis  is  a  risky,  a  particularly  risky  business,  if  it  be  not 
exactly  handled  ;  for  it  is  apt  to  fall  into  feebleness  and  to  sniell 
of  triviality  and  the  windbag. 

XXX.  But,  since  thought  and  style  in  literature  are  for  the  most 
part  intertwined  and  mutually  enfolded,  let  us  go  on  to  consider 
any  part  of  style  that  may  be  left.  That  the  selection  of  proper  and 
magnificent  words  has  a  wonderfully  seductive  and  caressing  effect 
on  readers  —  that  all  speakers  and  writers  make  it  their  chief 
study,  inasmuch  as  it  confers  upon  literature,  as  it  were  on  the 
fairest  sculpture,  grandeur,  beauty,  patina,1  weight,  strength,  force, 
and  what  not  —  inasmuch  as  it  puts,  as  it  were,  a  living  voice  in  the 
work  —  it  were  idle  to  urge  upon  the  intelligent.  FOR  ix  FACT 

BEAUTIFUL  WORDS  ARE  THE  VERY  AND  PECULIAR  LIGHT  OF  THE  MIND. 

Yet  high  language  is  not  for  indiscriminate  use ;  for  to  put  great 
and  dignified  words  on  petty  trifles  would  be  like  putting  a  tragic 
mask  on  a  baby.  But  in  Poetry  and  Hi  [story  ?]  2  .  .  . 

Come,  then,  let  us  catch  some  really  spotless  writer,  free  from  all 
possible  reproach!  Is  it  not  worth  while  to  thrash  the  whole 
question  out  on  this  same  point,  which  is  the  better  in  prose  and 
poetry,  grandeur  amid  some  shortcomings,  or  moderate  correctness 
free  from  all  positive  unsoundness  and  lapse  ?  Yes,  moreover,  and 
whether  the  greater  member  or  the  higher  quality  of  excellences 
should  bear  the  bell  in  literature  ?  For  these  things  are  germane 
to  an  enquiry  about  the  Sublime,  and  by  all  means  to  be  decided. 
Now  I  know  perfectly  well  that  the  highest  natures  are  the  least 
faultless.  A  mind  bent  on  absolute  accuracy  will  run  the  risk 
of  littleness,  and  in  mighty  genius,  as  in  great  wealth,  there  will  be 
some  things  missed  or  slighted.  It  may  even  be  unavoidable  that  low 

1  The  much  prized  "bloom"  of  age  on  bronze.     Those  translators  who  do 
not  give  its  special  sense  to  evirtveia  deprive  their  readers  of  the  chief  link  with 
sculpture. 

2  This  inestimable  passage  is  broken  by  one  of  the  longest  and  most  lament- 
able gaps  (four  leaves).     When  the  text  begins  again,  we  find  ourselves  in  a 
discussion,  interesting  but  a  little  meticulous,  on  Metaphors  and  their  allowable 
number,  character,  etc.     L.  takes  occasion  by  this  to  object  to  his  predecessor 
Caecilius  for  ranking  the  "faultless"  Lysias  above  the  "often  faulty"  Plato. 
And  then  in  XXXIII  he  proceeds  to  a  really  valuable  discussion  of  "fault- 
lessness  "  itself. 


ON  THE  SUBLIME  49 

and  middle  natures,  never  setting  all  to  the  touch  or  aiming  at  the 
summit,  remain  as  a  rule  free  from  danger,  while  great  things  totter 
through  their  very  greatness.  Nor,  in  the  second  place,  am  I 
ignorant  that,  in  everything  human,  the  faults  are  most  conspicu- 
ous, and  that  the  memory  of  slips  abides  uneffaced,  while  that  of 
beauties  speedily  fades.  But  while  I  have  myself  noted  not  a  few 
such  slips  in  Homer  and  others  of  our  greatest ;  while  I  am  not  in 
the  least  pleased  with  these  ;  and  while  I  nevertheless  call  them  not 
so  much  wilful  errors  as  chance  oversights  of  incuria,  casually  intro- 
duced by  the  heedlessness  of  genius ;  yet  I  think,  none  the  less, 
that  the  major  excellences,  even  if  not  uniformly  present,  should 
always  carry  the  election  for  their  greatness  of  thought,  if  for 
nothing  else. 

L.  proceeds  to  illustrate  this  from  Greek  authors,  preferring,  as  greater 
though  less  faultless,  Homer  to  Apollonius  and  (less  reasonably  ?)  Theocri- 
tus, Archilochus  to  Eratosthenes,  Sophocles  to  Ion,  Pindar  to  Bacchylides, 
and  —  at  some  length  in  the  whole  of  Chap.  XXXIV  —  Demosthenes  to 
Hyperides.  A  brief  return  to  the  comparison  of  Plato  and  Lysias  at  the 
beginning  of  XXXV  introduces  the  following  admirable  outburst. 

What  then  was  seen  by  those  godlike  ones,  who,  yearning  after 
the  greatest  achievement  of  literature,  made  light  of  undeviating 
accuracy  ?  Besides  much  else,  this  —  that  Nature  set  us  men  apart 
as  no  vile  or  lowborn  animals,  but,  introducing  us  into  life  and  the 
universal  Cosmos,  as  into  a  great  assembly,  to  be  at  once  spectators 
of  all  its  displays  and  most  emulous  competitors  in  them,  she 
inspired  our  souls  with  an  irresistible  and  eternal  love  of  all  that  is 
great  and,  as  it  were,  diviner  than  ourselves.  Wherefore  neither 
does  the  whole  world  suffice  for  the  intellectual  survey  and  process 
of  human  enterprise,  but  our  daring  thoughts  frequently  overpass 
the  bounds  of  circumstance.  And  if  a  man  will  consider  life  in  its 
whole  circuit,  and  see  how  superabundantly  it  is  furnished  with 
what  is  extraordinary,  and  beautiful,  and  great,  he  shall  soon  know 
for  what  we  were  born.  Hence  are  we  naturally  drawn  to  admire, 
not  the  petty  streamlets,  though  they  be  clear  and  of  good  use,  but 
the  Nile  and  the  Danube  and  the  Rhine,  and  the  Ocean  most  of  all. 
Nor  are  we  more  awed  by  the  flamelet  of  our  own  creation,  even 


50  LONGINUS 

though  its  light  be  steady,  than  by  the  heavenly  fires,  darkened  as 
they  often  are  ;  nor  do  we  think  it  worthier  of  wonder  than  the 
craters  of  Etna,  whose  eruptions  fling  out  from  the  abyss  rocks  and 
masses,  and  sometimes  vomit  rivers  of  earthborn  and  absolute  fire. 
In  fine  of  all  —  the  Useful  and  the  Necessary  are  to  man  easily 
enough  accessible ;  but  that  which  is  beyond  his  expectation  is  the 
object  of  his  Wonder. 

After,  in  the  beginning  of  XXXVI,  making  a  slight  return  upon,  or  resumd 
of,  the  above  passage  (which  contains  the  remarkable  words  "  Grandeur, 
in  literature  at  any  rate,  is  never  dissociated  from  use  and  profit "  and 
"  Writers  of  this  kind  are  above  what  is  mortal.  .  .  .  Sublimity  lifts 
them  near  the  mighty  thought  of  God "),  L.  redescends  into  details 
about  faults  and  failures,  reiterating,  however,  the  preference  for  even 
"  faulty  "  grandeur.  XXXVII  is  a  mere  fragment  initiating  a  last  dis- 
cussion of  Simile  ;  and  in  XXXVIII  we  find  ourselves  in  the  middle  of  one 
on  Hyperbole.  Isocrates  is  especially  censured  for  "  puerile  "  amplification  ; 
examples  of  defensible  though  extreme  hyperbole  being  produced,  on  the 
other  hand,  from  Thucydides  and  Herodotus. 

XXXIX  then  passes  to  the  fifth  "  tributary  of  the  Sublime,"  namely, 
rhythm. 

Not  only  [says  L.~\  is  Harmony  a  natural  cause  of  persuasion 
and  pleasure  to  men,  but  it  is  also  a  wonderful  instrument  of 
high  and  passionate  eloquence.  \_If  flute  and  harp  have  such 
well-known  poiver,  being  mere  bastard  imitations  of  human  effort, ~\ 
shall  we  not  think  that  literary  composition,  being,  as  it  were,  a 
harmony  of  the  language  natural  to  man,  and  capable  of  seizing 
not  merely  his  ears  but  his  soul  —  exciting  myriad  ideas  of  words, 
thoughts,  and  deeds,  of  beauty  and  melody,  all  born  with  and  bred 
up  in  us  —  and  with  the  mixture  and  variety  of  its  own  tones 
communicating  the  actual  passion  of  the  speaker  to  the  souls 
of  those  about  him  —  yea,  bringing  the  audience  into  communion 
of  being  with  him,  and  building  phrase  on  phrase  into  a  majestic 
edifice  - — •  shall  we  not  hold  that,  by  this  very  means,  it  bewitches 
us  and  disposes  us  to  elevation,  and  dignity,  and  sublimity, 
and  all  that  itself  contains,  exercising  universal  royalty  over 
our  minds? 


ON  THE  SUBLIME  51 

The  chapter  concludes  with  an  example  of  harmonic  arrangement  from 
Demosthenes,  which,  of  course,  is  only  intelligible  in  the  Greek.  XL  pro- 
ceeds, in  the  same  way,  to  deal  with  "  composition  "  proper  ;  that  is  to  say, 
the  arrangement  of  words,  clauses,  and  sentences,  again  with  examples  at 
least  sometimes  subject  to  the  same  drawback.  XLI  consists,  on  the  other 
hand,  of  cautions  against  unsuitable  and  "  niggling  "  rhythm  ;  XLII  of 
similar  but  briefer  warning  against  excessive  conciseness  ;  and  XLIII  of 
attacks  on  "  pettiness  "  in  certain  passages  of  Herodotus  and  Theopompus, 
in  reading  which  a  former  inability  to  sympathize  with  the  horror  of 
"  Frigidity  "  may  recur  to  modern  readers.  And  then  comes  the  last  actual 
chapter  (the  MS.  is  incomplete  as  well  as  gapped),  which  is  too  famous, 
and  too  representative  of  a  certain  not  ignoble  drift  of  criticism,  not  to  be 
given  whole. 

There  remains,  however,  my  dear  Terentiairas,  (I  shall  not  hesitate 
to  make  the  postscript  for  the  sake  of  your  love  of  learning)  the 
clearing  up  of  a  certain  point,  which  one  of  our  philosophers  has 
just  discussed.  "  It  is  surprising  to  me,"  he  says,  "  and  no  doubt 
to  many  others,  how  many  natures  there  are  in  our  time,  admirably 
persuasive  and  statesmanlike,  keen  and  versatile,  and  especially 
happy  in  attractive  eloquence,  how  few  and  rare  are  those  really 
sublime  and  grand.  So  world-wide  a  dearth  of  [great]  literature 
cramps  our  life.1  Are  we  to  give  faith  to  the  common  cant  that 
democracy  is  the  kind  nurse  of  sublimity,  and  that  mighty  men  of 
letters  flourish  and  die  with  it  ?  For  they  say  that  freedom  has 
the  might  to  cherish  and  encourage  the  thoughts  of  the  magnan- 
imous, and  that  with  it  there  is  disseminated  eager  mutual  emula- 
tion, and  the  thirst  for  fame  and  supremacy.  Moreover,  by  the 
prizes  open  in  republics  the  soul-gifts  of  orators  are  periodically 
practised  and  whetted,  and  as  it  were  burnished  ;  and  naturally 
shine  free  as  the  state  itself.  But  now,"  he  continued,  "  we  seem 
to  have  learnt  from  infancy  that  subserviency  is  the  law  of  life,2 
being  from  our  tenderest  years  of  thought  all  but  swaddled  in  its 
manners  and  customs,  and  having  never  tasted  that  most  beautiful 
and  fertile  fountain  of  eloquence,  Freedom  —  so  that  we  turn  out 


1  1  think  this  is  at  least  possible  for  &r<?x«  T&V  /3tW,  and  much  more  character- 
istic than  the  common  rendering  "  prevails  in  our  age." 

2  Lit.,  "  to  be  child-instructed  in  a  just  slavery." 


52  LONGINUS 

merely  sublime  in  Courtiership.  Therefore  it  was,"  he  said,  "  that 
while  all  other  faculties  fall  to  the  lot  of  servants,  no  slave  was 
ever  an  orator ;  for  in  him  there  is  always  an  eruption  of  the  lack 
of  free  speech,  the  symptoms  of  the  house  of  bondage  and  of  buffet- 
ings.  '  For  the  day  of  slavery,'  says  Homer,  '  takes  away  half  our 
virtue.'  As  then,"  said  he,  "  if  one  may  believe  what  is  said,  the 
cases  in  which  pygmies  or  dwarfs  are  kept  not  merely  prevent  the 
growth  of  those  shut  in  them,  but  thin  them  down  by  the  bonds 
cast  round  their  bodies,  so  all  servitude,  even  if  it  be  most  justly 
exercised,  has  been  rightly  called  a  cramping-case  of  the  soul  and 
a  public  house  of  bondage." 

But  I  took  him  up  and  said,  "It  is  very  easy,  my  good  friend, 
and  extremely  human,  to  blame  what  actually  exists.  But  take 
care  lest  it  be  not  the  settled  peace  of  the  world  which  spoils  great 
natures,  but  much  rather  the  boundless  riot  which  keeps  hold  on 
our  lusts,  and  not  less  the  passions  which  garrison  our  life  now,  and 
harry  and  ravage  it  from  top  to  bottom.  For  covetousness,  where- 
with we  are  all  deeply  afflicted,  and  love  of  pleasure,  lead  us  captive, 
nay,  one  might  say,  plunge  our  lives,  like  ships,  crews  and  all  in 
the  depths  —  love  of  money  causing  meanness,  and  love  of  pleasure 
being  the  ignoblest  of  all  diseases.  Nor  can  I,  after  much  thought, 
discover  how  it  is  possible  for  us,  if  we  overvalue  (or,  to  speak  in 
the  truest  way,  deify)  boundless  wealth,  to  refuse  the  entrance  of 
our  souls  to  the  evils  that  are  wealth's  congeners  and  come  in  its 
train.  For,  as  men  say,  there  follows  unmeasured  and  intemperate 
wealth,  closely  allied  and  with  equal  step,  Lavish  Expenditure,  and 
when  Wealth  has  opened  the  doors  of  cities  and  houses  the  other 
makes  its  way  in  and  abides  there.  And  in  due  time,  say  the  wise, 
these  build  nests  in  the  lives  of  men,  and,  swiftly  setting  about  child- 
making,  beget  Show,  and  Pomp,  and  Luxury  —  no  bastards  they,  but 
true-born  offspring.  And  if  any  suffer  these  children  of  Wealth  to 
grow  up,  they  produce  inexorable  tyrants  of  the  soul  —  Insolence, 
and  Lawlessness,  and  Lack  of  Shame.  These  things  must  needs  be 
so ;  and  the  men  [in  such  a  case]  will  no  longer  look  upwards  nor 
care  for  fame,  but  in  the  round  of  such  occupations  accomplish, 
little  by  little,  the  ruin  of  their  lives,  while  the  greatnesses  of  the 
soul  diminish  and  wither,  and  sink  below  emulation,  while  they  fix 


ON  THE  SUBLIME  53 

inordinate  admiration  on  the  mortal  parts  of  themselves  and  neglect 
the  augmentation  of  the  immortal  parts.  For  the  judge  with 
greasy  palm  can  never  judge  freely  and  soundly  on  questions  of 
justice  and  decency  —  to  the  bribe-taker  his  own  side  must  always 
seem  decent  and  just.  And  when  the  arbiters  of  the  whole  life 
of  each  of  us  are  bribes  and  legacy-hunting  —  when  each  of  us  buys 
gain,  from  no  matter  what  source,  at  our  soul's  price,  enslaved  by 
lust  —  can  we  then,  in  such  a  plague-stricken  spoiling  of  life,  think 
that  there  is  left  any  free  and  unbribed  judge  of  great  and  ever- 
lasting things,  or  that  any  is  not  canvassed  to  his  destruction  by 
the  lust  of  gain  ?  .  .  . "  Finally,  I  said  that  among  the  idle  outgoings 
of  our  actual  genius  is  that  nonchalance  in  which  all  of  us  (save  a 
few)  spend  our  lives  —  taking  no  trouble  and  undertaking  nothing 
save  for  praise  or  pleasure,  instead  of  for  what  is  worth  emulation 
and  honour. 

The  piece  ends,  once  more  abruptly,  with  the  introduction  of  a  lost 
treatise  on  the  Passions. 


VIII 
HORACE    (65-8  B.C.) 

THE  EPISTLE  TO  THE   PISOS,   OR  ART   OF  POETRY 

(It  has  seemed  best  to  deal  with  this  famous  document  —  the  traditional 
and  influential  importance  of  which  cannot  possibly  be  exaggerated, 
though  its  intrinsic  critical  value  may  be  much  more  disputable  —  by  a 
mixture  of  abstract  and  literal  translation.  The  italics  represent  the 
former,  and  also  occasional  insertions  for  clearness'  sake ;  the  Roman  text 
contains  the  latter.  I  have  used  the  text  of  the  Dean  of  Lincoln,  Oxford 
1900.) 

If  a  painter  chose  to  combine  a  human  head  and  a  horse's  neck, 
and  to  clothe  limbs  brought  together  from  all  sorts  of  bodies  with 
varied  plumage  —  to  make  what  is  a  lovely  woman  above  end 
hideously  in  a  black  fish-tail  below  —  you  would  laugh  when  he 
exhibited  his  work,  would  you  not,  friends  ?  Believe  me,  O  Pisos, 
that  such  a  picture  will  find  its  match  in  a  book  where,  as  in  a  sick 
man's  dreams,  the  forms  are  idly  fictioned,  so  that  neither  head  nor 
foot  belongs  to  a  single  kind.  But  surely,  you  will  say,  "  Painters 
and  poets  have  always  had  an  equal  right  to  dare  anything  ?  "  I 
know  it ;  and  I  grant  and  claim  the  privilege  by  turns.  But  incon- 
sistent things  must  not  be  joined :  the  purple  patch  at  certain  places 
must  not  be  laid  on  without  cause,  and  a  poet  must  not  quit  his  type  at 
pleasure.  Let  the  work  be  what  you  like,  provided  it  has  simplicity 
and  unity.  Too  many  of  us  poets  are  deceived  by  a  fallacious 
appearance  of  correctness  —  while  I  try  to  be  terse  I  become  obscure; 
the  quest  of  smoothness  leads  to  the  failure  of  nerve  and  spirit ; 
if  a  man  aims  at  grandeur  he  becomes  turgid  —  if  he  plays  too 
much  for  safety,  and  fears  a  storm,  he  grovels.  In  seeking  to  do 
conjuring  feats  of  variation  on  a  single  theme,  there  is  danger  of 
exhibiting  a  dolphin  in  the  woods,  in  the  floods  a  wild  boar.  The 

54 


EPISTLE  TO   THE   PISOS  55 

very  desire  to  avoid  faults  produces  fault  if  art  be  lacking.  .  .  . 
Choose,  0  ye  men  of  letters,  a  subject  suited  to  your  strength,  and 
meditate  long  what  your  shoulders  can  bear,  and  what  they  cannot. 
He  who  suits  his  matter  to  his  powers  will  never  lack  eloquence 
or  ordonnance.1  Now  the  virtue  and  beauty  of  this  ordonnance  is, 
unless  I  mistake,  that  it  makes  a  man  say  now  what  ought  now 
to  be  said,  and  postpone  the  rest  for  the  present. 

Let2  the  author  of  a  projected  poem  use  subtlety  and  caution  in 
the  contexture  of  his  words,  and  set  before  him  the  following  things 
to  choose  and  to  avoid.  You  will  be  thoroughly  successful  if  an 
ingenious  context  gives  a  new  sense  to  an  old  word.  If  it  is  really 
necessary  to  give  fresh  expression  to  something  recondite  you  may 
coin  words  unknown  to  the  ancients,  and  the  licence,  moderately 
exercised,  will  be  confirmed.  After  illustration  and  repetition  of  the 
same  doctrine,  he  lays  down  the  general  rule  as  follows:  Many  words 
will  revive  which  are  now  in  abeyance,  while  those  now  in  honour 
will  give  way,  as  usage — with  which  the  arbitrament  and  right  and 
law  of  speaking  rests  —  shall  decide. 

This  dictum,  as  to  "  usage "  seems  to  suggest  to  the  poet  a  fresh 
application  of  it  to  versification,  and  he  explains,  at  considerable 
length,  how  the  metres  appropriate  to  epic,  elegiac,  satiric,  and  other 
poetry  have  been  settled  once  for  all  and  must  not  be  changed;  how 
a  comic  matter  refuses  to  be  set  forth  in  tragic  verse,  and  how  con- 
trariwise even  tragic  heroes  in  poverty  and  exile  cast  aside  their 
yard-long  verbiage  and  their  swelling  pride  of  language  if  they 
wish  to  touch  the  spectators.  Many  famous  critical  aphorisms  are 
scattered  about  this  part  of  the  piece,  as,  "  It  is  not  sufficient  for  poems 
to  be  finely  written :  they  must  please  "  ;  "  If  you  wish  me  to  weep, 
you  must  first  yourself  express  real  sorrow  "  ;  etc.  As  throughout, 
the  drift  is  always  towards  Consistency,  Proportion,  Order;  and  the 
passage  culminates  in  the  famous  exhortation  to  "  keep  to  the  type"  to 
follow  tradition  or  else  make  things  consistent  with  themselves,  to 
represent  Achilles  as  active,  passionate,  inexorable,  keen ;  Medea 
fierce  and  indomitable,  etc.,  etc.  If  you  put  a  novelty  on  the  stage, 
and  dare  to  invent  a  new  personage,  let  it  be  kept  throughout  true 

1  This  word,  a  favourite  with  Dryden,  should  be  restored. 

2  Taking  Bentley's  order  of  11.  45,  46. 


56  HORACE 

p 

to  its  first  appearance  and  consistent  to  itself.  It  is  difficult  to 
give  proper  expression  to  common  things  ; l  and  you  will  have  more 
chance  of  success  in  dramatizing  the  Iliad,  than  if  you  be  the  first 
to  put  forth  something  "  new  and  original."  You  may  make  your 
own  use  of  such  public  material,  provided  that  you  neither  tread 
the  old  and  hackneyed  round  once  more,  nor  stick  to  mere  word  for 
word  rendering,  nor,  in  your  imitation,  thrust  yourself  into  tight 
places  where  you  have  no  business,  either  in  decency  or  in  crafts- 
manship. Neither  should  you  begin,  as  did  a  cyclic  poet  once 
upon  a  time,  "I  will  sing  the  fortune  of  Priam  and  the  far-famed 
war."  What  can  this  undertaker  produce  worthy  of  such  an 
opening  ?  How  far  better  he  who  makes  no  inept  attempt :  "  Tell 
me,  Muse,  of  the  hero  who,  after  the  capture  of  Troy,  saw  the 
manners  and  cities  of  many  men."  He  aims  not  at  following  flash 
and  crash  with  smoke,  but  at  blowing  his  smoke  into  flame. 
Divers  Homeric  traits  of  merit  are  then  noticed  —  the  restriction  to 
a  reasonable  scope,  the  constant  hastening  to  the  end,  the  hurrying 
of  the  reader  into  the  midst  of  matters  as  if  they  were  well-known, 
the  relinquishment  of  unpromising  topics,  the  constant  CONSISTENCY. 
To  this  beloved  virtue  Horace  then  once  more  returns,  insisting  that 
boys  shall  be  boys,  gamesome,  unthrifty,  and  so  forth,  the  old  ava- 
ricious, slow,  praisers  of  the  times  when  they  were  young,  etc.  The 
poet-critic  returns  and  returns  to  this  "  carefulness  of  the  type." 

Then  he  shifts  again.  The  theatre  proceeds  either  by  action,  or 
by  narration  of  action.  Things  heard  affect  the  soul  less  vividly 
than  what  is  put  before  the  faithful  eyes,  and  what  the  spectator 
administers  to  himself.  But  you  will  not  bring  on  the  stage  what 
ought  to  be  done  behind  the  scenes,  and  you  will  keep  out  of  sight 
much  which  can  be  presently  narrated.  Let  not  Medea  slaughter 
her  sons  in  public,  nor  wicked  Atreus  cook  the  human  joint,  nor 
Procne  be  turned  into  a  bird,  Cadmus  into  a  snake.  If  you  show 
me  anything  of  this  kind,  I  disbelieve  it,  and  feel  disgust.  Nor  let 

1  It  is  still  more  difficult  to  be  certain  of  the  exact  bearing  of  this  famous 
phrase ;  and  the  interpretation  most  in  accordance  both  with  the  usual  mean- 
ing of  the  words  and  with  general  critical  truth  ("  It  is  hard  to  give  individual 
expression  to  what  is  common  property  as  thought ' r)  does  not  perhaps  fit  most 
obviously  into  the  context. 


EPISTLE  TO  THE  PISOS  57 

a  play  which  aims  at  being  in  demand,  and  at  holding  the  stage, 
be  longer  or  shorter  than  five  acts ;  nor  let  gods  intervene  unless 
on  a  worthy  occasion ;  nor  let  a  fourth  personage  intrude  his 
observations.  The  office  of  the  chorus  is  then  described  and 
defended;  and  the  traditional  origins,  gradual  elaboration,  and 
various  kinds  of  the  Greek  drama  are  set  forth  with  considerable 
detail.  Even  metrical  minutice  of  the  best-known  kind — "a  long 
syllable  following  a  short  is  called  an  iamb,"  etc.  —  are  not  disdained; 
but  in  all  there  is  a  constant  repetition,  in  cleverly  varied  forms,  of  the 
cries,  "  Imitate  !  Keep  the  type  !  Observe  propriety  !  "  And  at  last 
we  have  the  famous  injunction,  Let  the  Greek  patterns  be  never 
out  of  your  hands  by  night  or  day.  This  leads  to  yet  another 
digression,  or  retrogression,  to  the  history  of  the  Greek  theatre  itself, 
with  afresh  return  to  Latin.  It  is  impossible  to  clear  this  part  —  or 
indeed  the  whole  — from  the  charge  of  incompleteness  and  desultori- 
ness;  but  striking  and  valuable  passages  are  nowhere  wanting  for 
long.  Of  such  are,  the  praise  of  those  Latin  dramatists  who  dared  to 
quit  the  footsteps  of  the  Greeks,  and  to  celebrate  the  ways  of 
home,  either  in  the  statelier  (prcetexta*)  or  the  more  familiar  (togata) 
form ;  the  anxious  recommendation  of  the  labour  of  the  file  ;  the 
modest  pretence  merely  to  discharge  the  function  of  the  whetstone, 
which  can  make  steel  sharp,  though  itself  unable  to  cut;  the 
supreme  motto  or  maxim,  so  eagerly  accepted  by  the  neo-classic  crit- 
icism of  the  17th-l8th  centuries  —  OF  WRITING  WELL  BIGHT  THINKING 
(sapere)  is  THE  BEGINNING  AND  THE  FOUNT  ;  the  scorn  of  verse 
devoid  of  meaning  and  tuneful  trifles  ;  the  second  capital  dictum  — 
POETS  WISH  EITHER  TO  INSTRUCT,  OR  TO  DELIGHT,  OR  TO  COMBINE  THE 
TWO  ;  the  renewed  caution  —  Let  what  is  imagined  for  the  sake  of 
giving  pleasure  keep  as  close  as  possible  to  actual  fact ;  and  the 
exaltation  of  the  poet  who  mixes  the  pleasant  and  the  useful  as 
having  carried  every  point. 

Then  some  mitigations  are  allowed.  When  a  poem  is  generally 
brilliant,  not  mine  be  it  to  be  offended  at  a  few  blots,  the  result  of 
negligence  or  of  human  frailty.  —  The  good  Homer  nods  a  little 
below,  and  the  immortal  as  painting  is,  so  is  poetry  follows,  though 
in  the  original  context  it  is  limited  to  the  necessity  of  viewing  both 
now  near  and  narrowly,  now  farther  off  and  at  large.  A  little  later 


58  HORACE 

comes  the  famous  Gods  and  men  and  columns  (the  columns  on 
which  new  poems  were  posted)  forbid  the  existence  of  minor  (or 
"  middling  ")  poets.  More  in  the  same  vein  follows :  cautions  to  do 
nothing  in  the  teeth  of  Minerva,  to  keep  a  poem  for  nine  years 
before  publication,  inasmuch  as  a  voice  once  let  loose  comes  not 
back  again.  Illustrations  of  a  somewhat  desultory  kind  ensue  — 
praises  of  the  poets  of  old  —  a  diversion  to  the  ever  vexed  question 
whether  a  praiseworthy  poem  is  the  result  of  nature  or  of  art  ? 
Horace,  as  might  be  expected,  answers,  Of  both;  but  lays  special 
stress  on  cultivation  of  talent. 

The  remainder  of  the  poem  is  chiefly  occupied,  at  what  may  seem 
very  disproportionate  length,  with  directions  for  taking  the  criticism 
of  friends  (using  great  care  that  it  be  competent  and  serious);  and 
the  actual  conclusion  is  half  ironical. 


IX 

PETKONIUS  (/.  c.  A.D.  60) 

A.     ON   DECLAMATION1 

These  things  might  be  tolerable  if  they  really  opened  a  path  to 
eloquence.  As  it  is,  by  the  bombast  of  the  matter  and  the  idle 
clatter  of  the  phrase,  men  gain  simply  this  :  that,  when  they  actually 
come  into  court,  they  think  they  have  been  transported  to  another 
world.  And  I  believe  that  schoolboys  become  such  utter  dunces 
for  the  very  reason  that  they  neither  hear  nor  see  any  of  the  usual 
actualities  of  life,  but  pirates  standing  on  the  shore  with  chains 
ready,  and  tyrants  ordering  sons  by  edict  to  cut  off  their  fathers' 
heads,  and  oracular  responses  in  time  of  plague  bidding  the 
sacrifice  of  three  or  more  maidens,  and  scraps  of  phrase  drugged 
with  honey  and  poppy  and  sesamum.  Those  who  are  bred  in  such 
an  atmosphere  can  no  more  keep  their  senses  unaffected  than  those 
who  live  in  the  kitchen.2  Excuse  me,  but  you  declamation-mongers 
have  been  the  ruin  of  eloquence  ;  for,  by  fostering  all  this  sham  of 
light  and  empty  sound,  you  have  enervated  and  made  to  totter  the 

1  The  "Declamation,"  or  set  artificial  speech,  not  only  formed  a  very  great 
part  of  school  and  university  education  among  the  Romans,  but  was  actually 
resorted  to  by  grown  men,  to  keep  in  full  play  those  oratorical  powers  which 
were  of  so  much  importance  in  business  and  politics.     The  examples  which, 
some  of  them  in  extenso,  we  possess  under  the  name  of  Quintilian,  and  the  very 
curious  declamatory  miscellanies  (as  we  may  call  them)  of  Seneca  the  Elder, 
show  that  the  attacks  of  Petronius  (which  are  repeated  by  the  satirists  from 
Persius  onwards)  were  not  ill-deserved. 

2  Lit.,    "those  who  are  nourished   amid  such  things  can  no  more  have 
good  taste  than  those  who  live  in  the  kitchen  good  smell."     A  satisfactory 
rendering  is  made  difficult  by  the  fact  that,  in  English,  the  verbs  "taste"  and 
"smell"  have  both  the  active  and  the  passive  sense,  while  in  Latin  sapere  has 
both  and  olere  only  the  passive. 

59 


60  PETROXIUS 

body  of  oratorical  speech.  Youth  were  not  yet  kept  a-declaiming 
when  Sophocles  and  Euripides  devised  their  styles.  The  pri- 
vate teacher  had  not  spoilt  good  wits  when  Pindar  and  the 
nine  lyric  poets  thought  shame  merely  to  follow  Homer.  And, 
not  to  cite  poets  only,  I  certainly  do  not  find  that  Plato  or 
Demosthenes  went  through  this  training.  The  ripe  but  maiden 
Muse  of  oratory,  so  to  speak,  is  not  blotched  in  countenance  nor 
bloated  in  form,  but  shoots  up  in  natural  beauty.  Of  late  this 
windy  and  unruly  loquacity  migrated  from  Asia  to  Athens,  and,  as 
it  were,  blasted  with  a  pestilential  star  the  magnanimous  aspir- 
ations of  youth.  Simultaneously,  true  eloquence  has  halted  and 
been  struck  dumb  as  the  system  became  corrupt.  Who  has  since 
come  near  the  fame  of  Thucydides  —  of.  Hyperides  ?  Not  even  verse 
lias  shown  the  colours  of  health ;  every  style,  as  if  fed  on  the  same 

food,  has  failed  to  reach  a  hale  old  age. 

Satyricon  i.  2. 

J3.     ON   POETRY 

Many  young  men  have  fallen  into  a  mistake  about  poetry.  For 
when  any  one  has  arranged  a  verse  metrically,  and  has  woven  in 
words  a  somewhat  tender1  conceit,  he  thinks  forthwith  that  he  is 
free  of  Helicon.  Thus  lawyers  and  statesmen  have  often  sought 
the  quiet  ways  of  verse  as  a  happy  port  of  refuge,  thinking  it 
easier  to  "  build  a  rhyme  "  than  to  adorn  an  argument  with  flashing 
phrase.  But  neither  does  the  nobler  breast  love  mere  vanity,  nor 
can  the  mind  conceive  or  yield  its  fruit  unless  it  be  flooded  with 
a  mighty  torrent  of  letters.  We  must,  so  to  speak,  flee  from  all 
commonness  of  diction,  and  take  words  remote  and  afar  from  the 
vulgar,  that  we  may  have  the  benefit  of  Odi  profanum,  etc.  We 
must  also  take  care  that  no  sentences2  project,  as  though  forced  out 

1  Teneriorem  may  here  have  the  literal  sense,  as  of  a  love-poem ;  or  it  may 
mean  "  more  delicate,"  "  more  fantastic  "  than  would  suit  prose. 

2  These  "sentences,"  or  yvdnai,  which  make  a  very  great  figure  in  the 
rhetorical  treatises  of  the  ancients,  originally  meant  moral  axioms,  etc.,  inter- 
spersed to  give  weight  and  dignity  to  the  speech.     As  these  things,  however, 
were  usually  expressed  with  particular  care,  or,  as  we  say,  "sententiously," 
the  word  got  to  be  applied  to  what  the  French  call  pointes —  "conceits,"  plays 
on  words,  "purple  patches,"  etc.,  in  general. 


ON   POETRY  61 

of  the  body  of  the  style ;  but  that  they  make  the  verse  glow  with 
enwoven  colour,  as  Homer  shows  us,  and  the  Lyrists,  and  the  Roman 
Virgil,  and  the  curious  felicity  of  Horace.  For  the  rest  either  saw 
not  the  path  that  leads  to  true  Poesy,  or,  seeing,  feared  to  tread 
it.  Whoso,  forsooth,  attacks  the  mighty  task  of  a  Civil  War, 
unless  he  be  full  of  letters,  will  fall  under  the  burden.  For  it  is 
not  a  question  of  putting  together  the  mere  facts  (which  historians 
will  do  much  better)  in  verse.  But  the  free  spirit  must  be 
hurried  through  difficulties,  and  the  ministry  of  the  gods,  and 
a  fabulous  torment  of  sentences,  so  that  it  may  appear  rather  the 
vaticination  of  a  frenzied  mind  than  a  trustworthy  discourse, 
scrupulously  according  to  evidence.1 

1  This  not  very  easy  passage  was  seized  upon,  by  the  17th  century  more  par- 
ticularly, and  elaborated  into  a  whole  code  of  "revolutions,"  "machinery," 
"  poetic  fury,"  "  poetic  diction,"  and  the  like,  for  the  Heroic  Poem.  The  chief 
crux  isfabulosum  sententiarum  tormentum,  in  which  (probably  at  least)  fabulo- 
sum  refers  to  the  supposed  necessity  of  bringing  in  as  much  mythological  matter 
as  possible,  sententiarum  is  employed  as  above,  and  tormentum  repeats  the 
doctrine  that  the  phrase  used  must  not  be  facile  and  ordinary.  But  there 
are  other  possibilities,  especially  of  allusion  and  side-glance ;  the  whole  is 
emphatically  a  text  for  the  student  to  ponder  and  for  the  teacher  to  expound. 

Ibid.  §  118. 


X 

QUINTILIAN    (A.D.  35  ?-96  ?) 

I.     FAULTS   AND    FIGURES 

It  is  often  hard  to  distinguish  faults  from  Figures  of  speech. 

Inst.  Or.  I.  v.  5. 


IT.     THE    DUTIES   OF    THE    TEACHER   IN   LITERARY1 
CRITICISM 

But  to  point  out  merits,  and,  where  chance  shall  require  it,  faults, 
is  the  special  and  proper  duty  of  his  profession  and  undertaking 
as  a  Master  of  Eloquence.  .  .  .  After  setting  forth  the  case  on 
which  the  oration  to  be  read  was  written  (for  what  is  said  there 
will  be  thus  better  understood),  let  him  occupy  himself  with  every- 
thing notable  either  in  the  invention  or  in  the  style;  with  the  method 
of  conciliating  the  judge  in  the  proem  ;  with  the  lucidity,  terseness, 
persuasiveness,  of  the  setting  forth,  the  design  here  and  there,  and 
the  concealment  of  artifice  — -  for  art  in  this  matter  wholly  consists 
in  being  imperceptible  except  to  the  artist.  Then  he  must  point 
out  what  foresight  there  is  in  the  disposition,  how  subtle  and 
unremitting  is  the  argument,  how  powerful  the  excitement,  how 
seductive  the  coaxing,  what  keenness  there  is  in  the  attack,  what 
urbanity  in  the  humorous  passages,  how  the  writer  sways  the 
passions,  and  captures  the  heart,  and  makes  the  mind  of  the  jury 
follow  what  he  says.  There  must  be  pointed  out  the  propriety, 
ornament,  sublimity  of  the  diction;  the  praise  due  to  ampli- 
fication, or  compression,  as  the  case  may  be ;  the  speciousness  of 

1  With  the  usual  caution  as  to  Oratory  and  Literature. 
62 


USE   AND  BEAUTY  — OF  CONCEITS  63 

the  metaphors ;  the  figures ;  the  smooth  and  polished,  yet  virile, 

composition. 

Ibid.  II.  v.  5-9. 

III.     USE    AND    BEAUTY 

True  beauty  is  never  divorced  from  utility. 

Ibid.  VIII.  iii.  11. 

IV.     OF   CONCEITS1 

There  are  two  parties  in  reference  to  Conceits,  the  one  paying 
almost  sole  attention  to  them,  the  other  condemning  them  altogether. 
I  agree  wholly  with  neither.  If  such  things  come  too  thick,  they 
get  in  each  other's  way ;  as  in  all  crops,  ground  or  tree,  nothing  can 
grow  to  full  size  if  it  has  no  room.  Nor  in  a  picture,  where  there 
is  no  shading  or  valuing,  does  anything  stand  out ;  so  that  artists 
who  put  several  objects  in  one  painting  keep  them  apart,  lest  the 
shadows  should  fall  on  them.  The  practice  also  makes  the  style 
"cut-up";  for  each  conceit  stands  by  itself,  and  there  is  really  a 
fresh  beginning  after  it.  So  that  the  phrase  is  wanting  in  con- 
tinuity, and,  being,  as  it  were,  made  up  not  of  members  but  of  single 
bits,  has  no  structural  unity,  inasmuch  as  these  parts,  rounded 
off  and  separated  on  all  sides,  have  no  mutual  dependence.  Besides 
this,  the  complexion  of  the  writing  is,  so  to  say,  sprinkled  with 
.spots,  bright  indeed  if  you  like,  but  too  many  and  too  different. 
Nay,  though  purple  stripes  in  their  proper  place  give  brightness 
to  a  dress,  no  one  would  look  well  in  sheer  motley.  Wherefore, 
though  such  things  may  seem,  to  a  certain  extent,  to  give  brilliancy 
and  distinction,  yet  it  would  be  better  to  call  such  flashes  not  pure 
flame,  but  sparks  mixed  with  smoke.  They  would  not  even  be 

1  Difficult  as  it  is  to  render  many  of  the  technical  terms  of  Greek  and  Latin 
rhetoric  into  English,  there  are  few  more  difficult  words  among  these  than 
yvt!>/j.i),  sententia.  We  keep  (as  is  noted  elsewhere)  something  like  the  meaning 
in  our  adjective  and  adverb  "sententious-ly,"  but  have  lost  it  in  "sentence." 
"Conceit,"  in  a  half-archaic  sense,  comes  near;  "epigram"  is  rather  farther 
off ;  the  French  pointe  comes  between  the  two.  The  "  sentence  "  is  really  any 
brief  detachable  and  quotable  phrase  which  is  particularly  striking,  either  as 
phrase  or  as  thought. 


64  QUINTILIAN 

visible,  if  the  whole  composition  were  luminous  —  even  as  in 
sunlight  the  very  stars  cease  to  be  seen.  Nor  can  incessant  and 
insignificant  attempts  at  elevation,  from  their  uneven  and  broken 
nature,  obtain  the  admiration  due  to  sublimity,  while  they  lose  the 

pleasantness  of  level  ground. 

Ibid.  VIII.  v.  25-29. 


V.     ON    COMPOSITION,  OR   DELIBERATE   CULTIVATION 
OF   STYLE 

I  am  not  ignorant  that  there  are  some  who  would  shut  out  all 
care  for  Composition,  who  contend  that  mere  unpolished  speech, 
just  as  it  comes,  is  not  only  more  natural  but  even  more  manly.  .  .  . 
(After  using  what  has  been  called  in  England  "  the  woad  argument " 
about  going  back  to  wood-dwelling  and  wild-beast-skins,  Q.  joins  closer 
issue.)  But  that  is  most  natural-  which  nature  permits  to  be  done 
in  the  best  way  possible.  How  can  anything  be  firmer  when 
it  is  in  disorder  than  when  it  is  bound  fast  together  and  well 
arranged  ?  .  .  .  As  the  flow  of  rivers  is  stronger  in  a  sloping  bed, 
which  interposes  no  obstacle,  than  when  the  waters  are  broken  by, 
and  struggle  with,  obstacles  of  rock,  so  is  style  which  is  connected, 
and  flows  with  full  force,  better  than  that  which  is  broken  and 
interrupted.  Why  then  should  men  think  that  vigour  is  impaired 
by  beauty,  when  nothing  is  ever  at  its  full  power  without  art,  and 
beauty  is  art's  constant  companion  ?  .  .  . 

If,  then,  there  is  a  certain  secret  force  even  in  inarticulate  har- 
monies, this  force  in  eloquence  must  be  most  vehement.  As  it 
makes  a  difference  in  what  words  the  sense  is  expressed,  so  does 
it  in  what  composition  the  words  themselves  are  contextured  and 
brought  to  a  conclusion.  Nay,  some  things  not  great  in  thought 
and  little  set  off  by  delivery,  are  made  acceptable  by  this  sole 
excellence ;  while  if  a  man  will  take  to  pieces,  and  alter  in  order 
of  words,  anything  that  he  thinks  written  with  force,  or  sweetness, 
or  grace,  —  all  these  qualities  will  be  found  to  have  disappeared. 

Ibid.  IX.  iv.  3-14. 


ON  PROSE  RHYTHM  65 

VI.     ON   PROSE   RHYTHM 

(A  cento,  or  rather  mosaic,  from  Inst .  Or.  IX.  iv.  52-end.  Some  gen- 
eral remarks  on  metre  and  rhythm  have  preceded.) 

And  even  metrical  feet  are  so  frequently  found  in  prose-writing 
that  in  it  actual  verses  of  all  kinds  often  escape  us  without  our 
perceiving  them ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  there  is  nothing  written 
in  prose  which  cannot  be  redacted  into  some  kind  or  other  of  verses 
or  at  least  fragments  of  verse.  .  .  .  Nay,  Cicero  frequently  says 
that  all  prose  consists  in  numbers,  and  has  been  blamed  for  it  by 
some,  as  if  he  had  bound  prose  down  to  (fixed)  rhythms.  .  .  .  But 
prose  will  condescend  to  finger-beats.  Cicero  himself  knew  this 
perfectly  well,  and  often  assures  us  that  he  is  seeking  what  is 
numerous,  with  the  intent  rather  that  the  composition  shall  not  be 
without  rhythm,  which  would  be  ignorant  and  clownish,  than  that 
it  should  be  definitely  rhythmical,  which  is  the  business  of  poetry. 
Just  as  we  care  neither  to  be  called  professional  athletes  nor  to  be 
thought  ignorant  of  gymnastics. 

But  the  even  accomplishment  effected  by  feet  is  in  want  of  some 
name  ;  and  what  can  be  better  than  "  number,"  and  "  prose  "  (lit., 
"  oratorical ")  "  number  "  ?  .  .  . 

However,  the  chief  business  in  this  matter  is  to  know  what  word 
will  square  best  in  each  particular  place ;  and  he  will  be  the  best 
composer  who  does  this l  only  with  a  view  to  composition.  But 
the  arrangement  of  feet  in  prose  is  much  more  difficult  than  in 
verse  :  first,  because  a  verse  is  contained  in  a  small  compass,  while 
prose  often  takes  much  wider  sweeps  ;  and  then,  because  verses 
resemble  each  other  and  run  off  on  one  system,  while  unless  prose 
is  varied  in  composition  it  both  offends  by  sameness  and  is  con- 
victed of  affectation.  Indeed,  the  whole  body,  or  if  I  may  so  say 
the  whole  course,  of  prose  is  pervaded  by  number ;  and  we  cannot 
even  speak  except  in  longs  and  shorts,  the  materials  of  feet.  (After 
giving  very  special  directions  for  attention  to  number  at  the  close,  and 
at  the  beginning,  of  periods,  Q.  goes  to  various  details.) 

1  It  has  been  usual  to  desiderate  a  non  here ;  I  am  not  so  sure  that  it  is 
wanted. 


66  QUINTILIAN 

.  That  an  entire  verse  should  appear  in  prose  is  the  ugliest  fault  of 
all ;  even  in  part  it  is  inelegant,  especially  in  the  end  or  beginning 
of  a  period.  (Of  this  many  examples,  both  Latin  and  Greek,  are 
given.)  But  this  whole  subject  has  been  handled  by  no  means  with 
the  idea  that  prose,  which  ought  to  have  sweeping  and  fluent  motion, 
should  dawdle  itself  into  dotage  \_consenescat]  in  measuring  feet  and 
weighing  syllables.  For  this  would  be  the  part  of  a  wretched 
creature,  occupied  on  the  infinitely  little.  Nor  could  one  who 
exhausted  himself  in  this  care,  have  time  for  better  things ;  if, 
abandoning  the  weight  and  despising  the  beauty  of  things,  he  were 
to  "  tessellate  words  and  worm  phrases  into  each  other,"  as  Lucilius 
says.  The  heat  will  be  cooled,  the  rush  checked,  as  finikin  manege- 
riders  break  the  pace  of  horses  into  mincing  step.  .  .  . 

The  best  judge  of  good  composition  is  the  ear — which  feels 
what  is  full,  has  a  sense  of  want  at  what  is  incomplete,  is  hurt  by 
the  rugged  and  soothed  by  the  smooth,  provoked  by  contortion 
and  satisfied  by  straightforwardness,  which  detects  lamenesses  at 
once,  and  is  disgusted  at  redundancy  and  verbiage.  ( Very  minute 
directions  for  the  accommodation  of  rhythm  and  delivery  to  each  other, 
and  to  the  subject  and  kind  of  composition,  are  given;  but  towards 
the  end  Q.  repeats  his  cautions  against  a  finikin  smoothness.) 

On  the  whole,  however,  if  I  must  say  it,  I  should  prefer  the  com- 
position to  be  hard  and  rough,  rather  than,  as  so  many  now  are, 
effeminate  and  enervated.  For  every  day  we  grow  more  wanton  in 
skipping  measures,  as  if  to  a  pitchpipe.  Nor  will  any  system  be 
so  good  that  it  may  be  continually  adopted  and  go  always  on  the 
same  feet.  For  it  is  a  kind  of  versifying  to  subject  all  writing  to 
the  same  measure ;  and  this  is  not  only  clear  affectation  (which  has 
to  be  most  of  all  guarded  against),  but  creates  disgust  through  its 
sameness  and  satiety.  The  sweeter  it  is,  the  sooner  its  sweet- 
ness perishes,  and  he  who  is  seen  to  be  busied  on  it  loses  grasp 
of  persuasion,  and  of  the  passions  and  all  the  emotions,  nor  will 
any  juryman  who  thinks  him  occupied  therewith  believe,  or  be 
sorry,  or  be  wroth,  at  his  instance.  (Looser  composition,  therefore, 
is  to  be  designedly  intermixed,  but  not  to  excess:  and)  The  chief 
business  is  to  dissemble  art;  so  that  numbers  may  seem  to  flow 
of  their  own  accord,  not  to  be  fetched  and  forced  into  service. 


JUDGMENT  OF   SENECA  67 

VII.     THE   CHOICE   OF   READING 

But  before  I  speak  of  individuals,  it  will  be  well  to  make  some 
general  observations  on  differences  of  opinion.  Some  think  that 
only  the  ancients  ought  to  be  read  —  they  consider  that  nowhere 
else  is  there  a  natural  eloquence,  a  virile  vigour ;  while  others 
rejoice  in  our  modern  wantonness  and  refinement,  and  in  all  the 
tricks  of  composition  to  please  the  ignorant  vulgar.  Even  of  those 
who  wish  to  follow  correctness  in  speaking,  some  think  true  and 
sound  Atticism  to  consist  in  terseness,  simplicity,  and  as  few 
departures  as  possible  from  ordinary  diction;  some  are  attracted 
by  more  ambitious  efforts  of  mind,  by  rapid  motion,  by  fulness 
of  elevation  and  spirit;  while  there  are  no  few  lovers  of  a  style 
smooth,  and  polished,  and  carefully  arranged.  Of  these  differ- 
ences I  shall  speak  more  at  length  hereafter  (y.  inf.,  §§  IX  and 
XII,  to  which  this  is  a  kind  of  introduction). 


VIII.    JUDGMENT   OF   SENECA 

(Quintilian's  survey  of  Greek  and  Roman  literature  is  of  the  first  inter- 
est ;  but  it  is  rather  too  long  as  a  whole,  and  in  parts  too  scrappy  and 
summary,  to  be  given  in  full  here.  The  judgment  of  his  elder  contem- 
porary Seneca,  with  which  it  concludes,  is  the  fullest  and  most  instructive 
item  in  it.  But  Q's  critical  attitude  —  and  in  part  that  of  the  ancients 
generally  —  is  illustrated  powerfully  by  his  missing  in  Apollonius  Rhodius 
all  qualities  but  "  even  mediocrity  "  ;  by  the  patronizing  dismissal  of  The- 
ocritus as  "  admirable  in  his  own  way,"  but  merely  "  rustic  "  and  "  shrink- 
ing from  the  city  " ;  by  his  omission  of  Sappho  altogether,  and  his  more 
than  half-rebuke  to  Alcseus  for  writing  love-poems ;  by  his  slighting  treat- 
ment of  Lucretius  as  "  difficult "  though  "  elegant,"  and  of  Catullus  as 
simply  "bitter.") 

I  have  deliberately  postponed  notice  of  Seneca  in  every  depart- 
ment of  eloquence,  because  of  the  opinion  falsely  but  commonly 
entertained  of  me  —  that  I  regard  him  with  hostility.  Now  this 
has  come  about  while  I  have  been  striving  to  bring  back,  to  a 
severe  critical  standard,  a  style  of  oratory  corrupt  and  debased  by 
every  fault.  At  that  time  [i.e.,  when  I  began]  Seneca  was  almost 


68  QUINTILIAN 

the  only  author  in  the  hands  of  youth.  Nor  did  I  attempt  to  wrest 
him  from  them  altogether ;  but  I  would  not  allow  him  to  be  set 
above  better  men,  whom  he  was  incessantly  attacking  for  the  reason 
that,  being  conscious  how  much  his  style  differed  from  theirs, 
he  despaired  of  pleasing  those  who  were  pleased  by  them.  But 
those  who  studied  him  rather  liked  than  copied  him  ;  and  diverged 
from  him  as  much  as  he  had  fallen  below  the  ancients.  For  it 
would  have  been  positively  desirable  that  they  should  be  equals, 
or  even  fair  seconds,  to  him.  But  they  liked  only  his  faults,  and 
merely  tried  to  copy,  each  what  he  could,  from  him ;  after  which 
their  boast  of  speaking  in  his  style  was  merely  a  disgrace  to 
Seneca  himself.  For  the  rest,  he  had  many  and  great  merits  : 
a  ready  and  copious  wit,  a  great  deal  of  erudition,  much  know- 
ledge of  facts  —  in  which  point,  however,  he  was  sometimes  led 
astray  by  those  whom  he  had  commissioned  to  make  research  for 
him.  Also  there  was  hardly  any  department  of  studies  that  he 
did  not  handle ;  for  there  are  extant  speeches  of  his,  and  poems, 
and  letters,  and  dialogues.  He  was  not  a  very  exact  student  of 
philosophy,  but  a  capital  attacker  of  faults.  There  are  many 
brilliant  conceits1  in  him;  much  of  him  is  worth  reading  for  its 
morality.  But  the  greater  part  of  his  style  is  corrupt,  and  all  the 
more  dangerous  that  it  abounds  in  pleasing  faults.  One  could 
wish  that  he  had  written  from  his  own  wit,  but  under  another's 
judgment.  For  if  he  had  disdained  some  things,  if  he  had  not  set 
his  heart  on  littleness,2  if  he  had  not  fancied  himself  indiscri- 
minately, if  he  had  not  broken  up  solid  matter  in  trifling  conceits,  — 
he  would  have  the  approval,  rather  of  the  agreement  of  the  learned, 
than  of  the  affection  of  boys.  But,  even  as  he  is,  he  is  to  be  read 
by  the  robust  and  those  confirmed  by  severer  studies,  if  only  that 
critical  judgment  may  be  exercised  on  him  in  either  direction. 
Much  in  him,  as  I  have  said,  is  to  be  approved,  much  even  to  be 
admired ;  but  we  must  take  care  to  select,  as  I  would  that  he  had 
done  himself.  For  a  nature  which  achieved  whatever  it  chose, 
was  worthy  to  choose  better  things  than  it  did. 

Ibid.  X.  i.  125-131. 

1  See  caution  above. 

2  Parum  is  not  often  used  in  this  way,  but  it  makes  good  sense. 


DIVISION  OF  STYLES  .  69 

IX.     OF   WRITING   BETTER   THAN   YOU   CAN 

About  this  I  remember  that  the  famous  Julius  Secundus,  my 
contemporary,  and,  as  is  well  known,  my  familiar  friend,  a  man 
of  wonderful  eloquence,  yet  of  infinite  laboriousness,  told  me  a 
saying  of  his  uncle's.  This  was  Julius  Floras,  the  very  chief  of 
Gaul  in  eloquence,  which  he  long  practised  there,  an  orator  among 
few  anywhere,  and  worthy  of  his  relationship.  Now  he,  by  chance 
seeing  Secundus,  who  was  still  busy  with  his  studies,  looking  down- 
cast, asked  him  why  he  was  so  dejected.  The  young  man  made 
no  secret  of  it,  that  for  three  days  he  had  been  unable,  with  all 
his  pains,  to  hit  upon  an  opening  for  a  subject  set  him  to  write 
upon  —  which  was  not  only  a  present  annoyance  to  him,  but  made 
him  despair  of  the  future.  Then  Floras  smiled  and  said :  "  Pray, 
do  you  want  to  speak  [write]  better  than  you  can  ?  " 

Ibid.  X.  iii.  12-14. 


X.     DIVISION   OF  STYLES  — ATTIC,   ASIATIC,  AND  RHODIAN 

From  of  old  there  has  been  the  famous  division  of  Attic  and 
Asiatic  writers  — the  former  being  reckoned  succinct  and  vigorous, 
the  latter  inflated  and  empty.  In  those  there  was  to  be  nothing 
superfluous,  in  these  a  lack  of  nothing  so  much  as  of  judgment 
and  measure.  Some,  such  as  Santra,1  think  that  this  came  about 
because,  as  the  Greek  tongue  spread  little  by  little  among  the 
neighbouring  states  of  Asia,  folk  who  were  not  yet  sufficiently 
accomplished  in  it  were  ambitious  of  eloquence,  and  so  at  first 
began  to  express  periphrastically  what  might  have  been  signified 
directly,  and  then  held  on  in  the  same  path.  But  I  think  that 
the  different  natures  of  speakers  and  audiences  produced  the 
difference  of  style,  inasmuch  as  the  Attics,  polished  in  form 
and  clear  of  head,  could  not  endure  inanity  and  redundancy;  the 
people  of  Asia,  in  other  ways  more  given  to  boasting  and  bombast, 
were  likewise  puffed  up  with  a  vainer  conceit  in  speaking.  And 
soon  those  who  arranged  this  division  added  a  third  kind — the 

1  A  grammarian  elsewhere  quoted  but  not  otherwise  known. 


70  QUINTILIAN 

Rhodian  —  which  they  would  have  to  be  a  sort  of  mean  and 
blend  of  the  two.  Writers  of  this  class  are  neither  terse,  like 
the  Attics,  nor  prolix  after  the  Asian  fashion.  So  that  they  seem 
to  have  something  of  their  race  and  something  of  their  master; 
for  JSschines,  who  chose  Rhodes  for  his  place  of  exile,  brought 
thither  Athenian  studies,  which,  as  crops  degenerate  in  alien  soil 
and  under  a  foreign  sky,  blended  the  Attic  taste  with  that  of  the 
foreigner.  The  Rhodians  are  held  to  be  somewhat  tame  and  slack, 
but  not  quite  feeble  —  resembling  neither  crystal  fountains,  nor 

turbid  torrents,  but  calmly  flowing  pools. 

Ibid.  XII.  x.  16-19. 

XI 

In  the  immediate  sequel,  Q.,  while  preferring  the  Attic  style  as  a 
matter  of  course,  judiciously  observes  that  there  are  many  kinds  of  Attic, 
and  protests,  with  one  of  the  not  too  frequent  touches  of  irony  which 
season  his  book,  against  the  restriction  of  the  "  odour  of  thyme "  [the 
herb  of  Hymettus]  to  those  who  "  dribble  the  stream  through  the  pebbles," 
i.e.,  who  observe  an  affected  simplicity  and  absence  of  ornament.  Then 
he  turns  to  one  of  the  most  interesting  points  in  the  whole  treatise, 


A  COMPARISON  OF  GREEK  AND  LATIN  STYLE 

Latin  eloquence,  while  it  clearly  resembles,  and  is  in  fact  a 
scholar  of,  Greek  in  invention,  disposition,  judgment,  and  other 
similar  points,  scarcely  admits  imitation  of  Greek  in  the  strictly 
elocutionary1  direction.  For,  to  begin  with,  it  is  much  harsher 
in  sound.  (He  gives  a  large  number  of  minute  instances  of  this  — 
the  lack  of  the  Greek  v  and  <j>,2  the  snarling  sound  of  fr,  the  want  of 
the  digamma  or  w,  the  ugliness  of  the  terminations  m,  b,  d,  the  harsh 
accentuation.}  And  thus  Greek  speech  is  so  much  more  charming 
than  Latin,  that  our  poets,  whensoever  they  want  a  verse  to  be 
attractive,  deck  it  with  Greek  words.  What  is  still  more  serious, 

1  Using  "elocution,"  as   18th  century  writers  still  used  it,  to  mean  not 
"delivery,"  but  everything  pertaining  to  diction. 

2  He  does  not  name  these,  and  some  have  imagined  the  second  to  be  f :  but 
this  suits  the  context  less,  though  there  are  difficulties  both  ways. 


A   COMPARISON  OF  GREEK  AND  LATIN  STYLE         71 

many  things  with  us  have  no  recognized  names,  so  that  we  are 
driven  either  to  metaphor  or  to  periphrasis ;  and  even  in  those 
things  which  have  been  named,  our  poverty  of  synonyms  keeps  us 
in  the  same  round,  while  they  have  a  supply  not  merely  of  different 
words,  but  even  of  different  dialects. 

Wherefore,  if  any  shall  demand  from  us  Latins  that  famous 
grace  of  the  Attic  eloquence,  let  him  provide  us  with  the  same 
attractive  quality  and  an  equally  copious  supply  of  vocabulary. 
If  this  be  refused  us,  we  shall  adjust  our  meaning  to  the  words 
we  have,  and  not  blend  an  excessive  subtlety  of  matter  with  a 
stoutness,  not  to  say  grossness,  of  words,  lest  the  merits  of  both 
disappear  in  the  confusion.  For,  the  less  we  are  helped  by  our 
language,  the  better  fight  we  must  make  in  originality  of  matter. 
We  must  extract  for  ourselves  meanings  of  sublimity  and  variety. 
We  must  work  on  all  the  emotions,  and  lighten  our  style  with 
brilliant  metaphor.  We  cannot  have  so  much  grace ;  let  us  excel 
in  strength.  In  subtlety  we  yield  ;  but  let  us  be  weightier.  They 
can  make  surer  of  exact  propriety;  let  us  have  the  advantage  of 
fulness.  The  genius  of  the  Greeks,  even  in  its  minor  examples, 
has  ports  open  to  it  alone ;  let  us  spread,  whenever  we  can,  an 
ampler  canvas,  and  bid  a  mightier  wind  fill  our  sails.  But  we 
must  not  always  keep  to  the  high  seas  —  we  must  coast  now  and 
then.  They  can  glide  here  over  any  shallows  ;  but  /  shall  find  a 
channel,  perhaps  not  so  much  deeper,  in  which  my  skiff  will  not 
touch  the  bottom. 

Nor  if  the  Greeks  manage  these  subtler  and  closer-hauled  matters 
better,  and  if  in  them  alone1  we  must  admit  defeat  —  as,  for  instance, 
we  do  not  attempt  to  compete  in  comedy, —  are  we  to  give  up  even 
this  department  altogether.  We  must  do  what  we  best  can ;  and 
we  can  be  equal  in  judicious  management  of  matter,  while  we 
must  supply  our  intrinsic  lack  of  graceful  words  by  seasonings  from 

outside. 

Ibid.  XII.  x.  33-38. 

1  Others  take  solo  as  from  solum,  "  on  this  ground." 


72  QUINTILIAN 

XII.     OTHER   CLASSIFICATIONS   OF    STYLE 

After  divers  remarks  —  among  which  occurs  the  all-important  state- 
ment, containing  the  validation  of  the  claims  of  the  Institutes  as  a  docu- 
ment of  literary  criticism,  TO  ME  GOOD  SPEAKING  AND  GOOD  WRITING 
APPEAR  TO  BE  ONE  AND  THE  SAME  THING  —  Q.  approaches  his  conclusion 
thus: 

There  is  yet  another  tripartite  division,  whereby  the  kinds,  even 
of  good1  speaking,  may  be  distinguished.  For  one  is  plain,2  which 
the  Greeks  call  to-^vov;  another  grand  and  robust,  which  they  call 
abpov ;  the  third  some  call  the  mean  between  the  two,  others 
"  florid,"  from  the  Greek  avOrjpov.  (The  special  uses  of  these  various 
kinds  in  oratory  are  then  noted.} 

But  style  is  by  no  means  tied  down  to  these  three  forms.  For 
as  there  is  a  tertium  quid  between  the  "  thin  "  and  the  "  stout,"  so 
there  are  subdivisions  of  these  two,  and  blends  and  middle  terms 
of  these  subdivisions.  There  is  something  more  pregnant,  and 
something  plainer,  than  the  plain ;  something  slacker,  and  something 
more  forcible,  than  the  forcible  :  as  the  level  style  either  rises  to 
the  sublimer  or  sinks  to  the  plainer  ranges.  And  so  there  are 
almost  innumerable  kinds,  distinguished  from  each  other  by  some 
tendency;  just  as  we  hold  that  the  four  winds  blow  generally  from 
four  cardinal  points,  though  there  are  .many  between  them,  and 
some  even  peculiar  to  special  places  of  land  and  water.  (  These,  as 
before,  will  all  be  suitable  to  the  orator  at  one  time  or  another.) 

For  they  are  grossly  deceived  who  think  that  the  most  popular 
kind  of  speaking,  and  that  likely  to  be  most  applauded,  is  a  vicious 
and  corrupt  style,  which  gives  itself  excessive  licence  of  speech, 
or  wantons  in  puerile  conceits,  or  is  turgid  with  excessive  bombast, 
or  revels  in  idle  commonplaces,  or  glitters  with  flowers  of  speech 
which  fall  at  the  lightest  touch,  or  takes  violence  for  sublimity,  or 
rants  under  the  pretext  of  freedom.  That  such  styles  do  please 
many  I  neither  deny  nor  wonder.  .  .  .  When  anything  said  in  a 
manner  out  of  the  common  falls  on  the  ears  of  the  uninstructed, 

1  Taking  etiam  recte  with  dicendi.     Others  take  it  with  discemi. 

2  Latin  subtile;  but  among  the  many  senses  of  this  word  "  plain  "  is  included, 
and  is  here  necessitated  by  the  Greek. 


OTHER  CLASSIFICATIONS  OF  STYLE  73 

no  matter  of  what  sort  it  be,  provided  that  they  cannot  hope  to  do 
the  like  themselves,  it  has  their  admiration,  nor  undeservedly  — 
for  even  to  do  this  is  not  easy.  But  such  things  fade  and  die  when 
compared  with  better.  .  .  .  Such  light  shines  only  this  side  of  the 
sun.  In  fine,  many  approve  what  is  bad,  none  disapproves  what 
is  good. 

Ibid.  XII.  x.  58,  66-67,  73-76. 


XI 

A.  GELLIUS  ON  VIRGIL'S  "ETNA" 

(This  stricture,  partly  repeated  almost  verbatim  in  Macrobius,  shows, 
first,  a  criticism  of  definite  passages  not  very  common  in  the  ancients,  and, 
secondly,  that  horror  of  the  excessive  which  dominates  "  classical"  criticism. 
It  forms  Bk.  xvii.  ch.  10  of  the  Nodes  Attica;,  a  most  interesting  and  con- 
stantly imitated  miscellany  of  the  middle  second  century  after  Christ. 
(Gellius/.  c.  150;  Macrobius/.  c.  400.)) 

I  remember  that  the  philosopher  Favorinus,1  when  in  the  heat  of 
the  year  he  had  retired  to  his  host's  villa  at  Antium,  and  we  had 
come  from  Rome  to  see  him,  discussed  Pindar  and  Virgil  somewhat 
in  this  way  :  "  Virgil's  friends  and  associates,"  said  he,  "  in  their 
memorials  of  his  genius  and  character,  say  that  he  was  wont  to 
observe  that  he  produced  verses  after  the  manner  and  fashion  of  a 
she-bear.  For,  as  this  beast  produces  its  cub  unformed  and  unfin- 
ished, and  afterwards  licks  the  product  into  shape  and  figure  ;  so 
the  results  of  his  wits  were  at  first  rough-hewn  and  uncompleted, 
but  afterwards,  by  rehandling  and  fashioning  them,  he  gave  them 
lineaments  and  countenance.  Now,"  said  he,  "  the  facts  prove  that 
this  quick-witted  poet  spoke  with  as  much  truth  as  frankness. 
For  those  things  which  he  left  polished  and  perfected  —  those  on 
which  he  put  the  last  touch  of  his  censorship  and  his  choice  — 
rejoice  in  the  full  praise  of  poetical  loveliness  ;  but  those  of  which 
he  postponed  the  recension,  and  which  could  not  be  finished  owing 
to  the  interposition  of  Death,  are  by  no  means  worthy  of  the  name 
and  judgment  of  this  most  elegant  of  poets.  And  so,  when  he  was  in 
the  grasp  of  sickness,  and  felt  the  approach  of  death,  he  earnestly 
begged  and  prayed  of  his  dearest  friends  that  they  would  burn  the 
JEneid,  to  which  he  had  not  yet  sufficiently  put  the  file. 

1  Favorinus,  or  Phavorinus,  was  a  philosopher  of  Hadrian's  time,  who  enjoyed 
a  great  reputation,  and  was  the  friend  not  merely  of  Gellius,  but  of  Plutarch, 
Herodes  Atticus,  and  other  persons  of  distinction.  All  his  works  are  lost. 

74 


GELLIUS  ON   VIRGIL'S   "ETNA"  75 

"Now  among  those  passages  which  seem  to  have  been  most  in 
need  of  rehandling  and  correction,  that  on  Mount  Etna  holds  the 
chief  place.  For,  while  he  wished  to  vie  with  the  verses  of  the  old 
poet  Pindar  on  the  nature  and  eruptions  of  this  mountain,  he  < 
wrought  such  conceits  and  such  phrases  that  in  this  place  he  has 
out-Pindared  Pindar  himself,  who  is  generally  thought  to  indulge 
in  too  exuberant  and  luxuriant  rhetoric.  To  put  you  yourselves  " 
(he  continued)  "  in  the  position  of  judges,  I  will  repeat,  to  the  best 
of  my  memory,  Pindar's  verses  on  Etna.  .  .  .  (The  passage  will  be 
found  in  Pyth.  i.  40-50,  that  which  follows  in  ^Eu.  iii.  570  sqq.) 

" Now  listen  to  Virgil's  verses,  which  I  would  rather  call  'begun ' 
than  'made.'  .  .  . 

"  Now,  in  the  first  place,"  said  he,  "  Pindar,  paying  more  attention 
to  truth,  says  what  is  the  fact  —  what  usually  happens  there  and 
what  is  seen  with  eyes  —  that  Etna  smokes  by  day  and  flames 
by  night ;  but  Virgil,  while  he  laboriously  seeks  out  noisy  sound- 
ing words,  confuses  the  seasons  without  any  distinction.  And  the 
Greek  said  clearly  enough  that  fountains  of  fire  belched  from  the 
bottom,  and  rivers  of  smoke  flowed,  and  twisted  yellow  volumes  of 
flame  rolled  to  the  shore  of  the  sea,  like  fiery  snakes.  But  this 
good  man  of  ours,  by  choosing  to  interpret  '  a  burning  stream  of 
smoke'  'a  black  cloud  smoking  with  pitchy  gusts  and  [glowing] 
ashes,'  has  heaped  things  together  coarsely  and  without  mod- 
eration, and  has  harshly  and  inaccurately  translated  what  the 
other  called  '  fountains '  into  '  globes '  of  flame.  Again,  when  he 
says  that  it  '  licks  the  stars,'  he  has  made  an  empty  and  idle  exag- 
geration. Moreover,  what  he  says  about  the  black  cloud,  etc., 
is  indescribable,  and  almost  incomprehensible.  For  things  which 
glow  are  not  usually  black  or  smoking  —  unless  he  has  very  vulgarly 
and  improperly  used  the  word  candente  of  ash  merely  hot,  not 
fiery  and  shining.  For  candens  is  said  of  the  brightness,  not 
the  heat.  But  as  for  the  stones  and  the  rocks  being  belched  and 
flung  up,  and  the  very  same  ones  anon  being  'liquefied,'  and  groan- 
ing, and  being  'conglomerated  in  air' — all  this  was  neither 
written  by  Pindar  nor  ever  heard  in  speech,  and  it  is  the  most 
monstrous  of  all  monstrosities." 


XII 

BOETHIUS  (c.  470-c.  524  A.D.)    ON   POETEY 

I  have  thought  it  worth  while  to  give  this  short  extract  from  the  De 
Consolatione,  not  merely  because  the  book  itself  was  an  oracle  to  the 
whole  of  the  Dark  and  Middle  Ages,  but  because  it  expresses  a  critical  — 
or  uncritical  —  view  of  literature  proper,  which  was  almost  orthodox  during 
that  period,  and  which,  derived  ultimately  from  Plato  and  strongly  supported 
by  the  Fathers  of  the  Church,  had  to  be  seriously  combated  by  the  defenders 
of  Letters  at  the  Renaissance,  from  Boccaccio  downwards.  The  passage  is 
from  nearly  the  beginning  of  the  prose  of  the  book.  The  philosopher 
actually  starts  with  a  poem  which  he  represents  as  dictated  to  him  by  the 
Muses  in  his  prison.  Then  appears  Wisdom. 

But  when  she  saw  the  Muses  of  poetry  standing  by  my  couch, 
and  dictating  words  to  accompany  my  wailings,  she  was  a  little 
moved;  and,  flashing  her  eyes  fiercely,  "Who,"  cried  she,  "has 
permitted  these  wantons  of  the  theatre  to  have  access  to  this  sick 
man ;  not  to  soothe  his  pains  with  any  remedies,  but  to  feed  them 
with  sweet  poison?  These  are  they  who,  with  the  barren  thorns 
of  passion,  kill  the  fertile  crop  of  reason's  fruit,  and  do  not  free 
men's  minds  from  disease,  but  familiarize  them  with  it.  Nay,  if, 
as  ye  were  wont,  ye  had  deceived  some  profane  one  with  your 
blandishments,  I  might  take  it  less  ill,  for  our  business  would 
suffer  naught  in  him.  But  shall  ye  delude  this  man,  nourished 
in  Eleatic  and  Academic  studies?  Avaunt  rather,  ye  Sirens  ever 
sweet  to  destruction,  and  leave  him  to  be  nursed  and  healed  by  my 
Muses."  Whereat  the  bevy,  thus  rebuked,  cast  their  eyes  sadly  on 
the  ground,  and,  confessing  their  shame  by  their  blushes,  sadly 
crossed  the  threshold.1 

1  Later  (ii.  Prose  1)  Rhetoric  fares  a  little,  but  only  a  little,  better  than 
Poetry.  "Let  there  be  present  then,"  says  Wisdom,  "the  persuasion  of 
rhetorical  sweetness,  which  then  only  goes  in  the  right  path,  when  it  does  not 
desert  my  laws." 

76 


XIII 
DANTE  (1265-1321) 

DE  VULGARI  ELOQUIO 

I.    WHAT  THE  VULGAR  TONGUE  IS  :  AND  OF  ITS  NOBILITY 

But  since  it  is  for  each  branch  of  study,  not  to  prove  the  exist- 
ence of  its  subject,  but  to  open  and  expound  that  subject,  we  say, 
to  cut  the  matter  short,  that  what  we  call  the  Vulgar  Tongue  is  that 
to  which  infants,  when  they  first  begin  to  distinguish  sounds,  are 
accustomed  by  those  about  them.  Or,  still  more  shortly,  we  call 
that  the  Vulgar  Tongue  which,  without  any  rules  at  all,  we  get  by 
imitating  our  nurses.  We  have  also  another  secondary  speech, 
which  the  Komans  called  grammatica.1  This  secondary  speech  the 
Greeks  have,  and  others  ;  but  not  all.  Yet  few  come  to  familiarity 
with  this,  because  we  can  be  schooled  and  disciplined  in  it  only  by 
much  time  and  assiduous  study.  Moreover,  of  these  two  the  Vulgar 
is  the  nobler,  both  because  it  was  the  first  employed  by  the  human 
race,  and  because  the  whole  world  enjoys  the  use  of  it,  though  it  be 
divided  into  various  speeches  and  vocabularies,  and  also  because  it 
is  natural  to  us,  while  the  other  is  rather  to  be  looked  upon  as 
artificial.  And  of  this  nobler  one  it  is  our  intention  to  treat. 

Bk.  I  ch.  i  11.  17-41,  ed.  Oxon. 

1  There  is  a  certain  difficulty  —  arising  partly  from  the  mention  of  Greed  et 
alii  here,  and  partly  from  the  comparison  of  this  passage  with  others  —  in  being 
certain  whether  Dante  means  by  this  word  simply  "Latin,"  or  the  higher  and 
more  literary  form  of  any  language,  refined  by  study  of  "grammar"  proper, 
rhetoric,  etc. 


77 


78  DANTE 

II.     THE   QUALITIES   OF   AN   ILLUSTRIOUS   VULGAR 

After  his  general  exordium,  D.  first  sketches  —  rapidly,  but  with  surpris- 
ing accuracy,  all  things  considering  —  the  tongues  of  Europe  generally,  and 
then  successively  narrows  his  consideration  to  the  Romance  tongues,  and 
of  these  to  Italian.  He  next  considers  the  Italian  dialects  at  some  length  ; 
and  decides  that  none  of  them  —  not  even  Tuscan  —  deserves  the  position 
of  standard  by  itself,  and  as  it  is.  And  then  he  goes  on  : 

Since  we  have  hunted  through  the  woods  and  fields  of  Italy 
without  coming  up  with  the  panther l  of  our  quest  —  let  us,  in 
order  to  find  her,  conduct  the  investigation  in  a  more  scientific 
manner,  that  by  methodic  effort  we  may  thoroughly  include  in  our 
nets  the  beast  everywhere  scented  and  everywhere 2  seen  in  glimpses. 
So,  taking  up  our  hunting  gear  again,  we  say  that  in  every  class  of 
things  there  must  be  some  one  point  by  which  all  the  members 
of  the  class  are  compared  and  weighed  —  and  from  this  we  take 
the  common  measure  of  all.  j  xvi  ^_j9 

Some  rather  scholastic  illustrations  follow,  and  then  he  proceeds. 

Now  the  noblest  points  of  our  Italian  ("Latin")  sayings  and 
doings  are  not  the  exclusive  property  of  any  Italian  state,  but  com- 
mon to  all ;  and  among  these  we  can  now  distinguish  that  Vulgar 
Tongue  which  we  hunted  above,  the  scent  of  which  lies  in  every 
state,  but  her  abiding  lair  in  none.  This  may  be  more  evident  in  one 
than  in  another,  just  as  the  pure  Divine  principle  of  being  is  more 
evident  in  a  man  than  in  a  beast ;  in  an  animal  than  in  a  plant ;  in 

1  Many  mysterious  qualities  and  symbolisms  were  attributed  by  mediaeval 
bestiaries  to  the  panther  ;  but  Dante  here  (save  for  his  possible  reference  to  its 
"sweet  breath"  below  in  redolentem)  is  probably  only  thinking  of  its  beauty 
and  rarity. 

2  I  am  as  sure  as  I  can  be,  on  such  a  point,  that  Dr.   Moore  is  right  in 
extending  the  ubique  et  u  of  the  MSS.  into  the  natural  repetition  of  the  first 
word.     Dr.   Rajna  and  others  conjecture  necubi,  nee  usquam,  etc.,  so  as  to 
reverse  the  sense,  "scented  but  not  even  glimpsed."    This  is  neither  necessary 
nor  probable.     D.  does  not  say  that  the  beast  has  never  been  seen,  but  that  we 
have  never  "come  up  with  it"  —  adinvenimus.     His  very  argument  below  is 
that  it  has  been  seen  —  though  obscurely  and  entangled  in  the  crowd. 


THE  ILLUSTRIOUS  VULGAR  IN  POETRY  79 

a  plant  than  in  a  mineral ;  in  a  mineral  than  in  fire ;  in  fire  than 
in  earth.  .  .  .  And  so,  having  caught  what  we  sought,  we  say  that 
the  Illustrious,  Cardinal,  Aulic,1  and  Curial  Vulgar  Tongue  in  Italy 
("  Latium  ")  is  that  which  belongs  in  reality  to  all  Italian  towns, 
and  in  appearance  to  none  —  which  is  the  measure,  standard,  and 
point-of-comparison  for  all  the  municipal  vernaculars  of  the  country. 

Hid.  1.  39-end. 

III.     THE   APPLICATION   OF   THE    ILLUSTRIOUS   VULGAR 
TO    POETRY 

Having  in  his  First  Book  established  the  existence  and  qualities  of  an 
Illustrious  Vernacular,  Dante  proceeds  in  his  Second  to  examine  its  applic- 
ation to  Italian  Poetry  with  regard  to  Subject,  Diction,  and  Metre.  On 
the  last  head  the  remarks  are  necessarily  of  local  and  particular  interest 
chiefly.  Those  in  reference  to  the  other  two  —  but  especially  to  Diction  — 
are  of  such  far-reaching  importance  that  a  catena  of  the  chief  of  them  will 
hardly  yield  to  any  piece  in  this  book  in  that  respect,  if  rightly  considered. 
Contrast,  especially,  the  citations  from  Wordsworth  infra. 

We  confess,  first  of  all,  that  the  Italian  ("Latin")  Illustrious 
Vernacular  is  to  be  fitly  employed  both  in  prose  and  in  verse. 
But  because  it  is  more  usual  for  prose-writers  to  take  it  from  poets 
[than  vice  versa]  ;  and  because  poetry  remains  a  standing  example 
to  prose-writers  and  not  the  contrary,  inasmuch  as  certain  things 
seem  to  give  the  primacy  to  verse  —  therefore  let  us  shape  our  song 
in  connection  with  what  is  itself  metrical  [i.e.,  "let  us  begin  with 
poetry  "].  n  L  3_12 

Wherefore,  if  suitability  has  respect  to  worth  ...  it  is  clear 
that  good  things  will  suit  the  worthy,  better  the  worthier,  and  the 
best  the  worthiest.  And  since  speech  is  not  a  less  instrument  to 

1 1  prefer  this  to  "Courtly,"  because  the  latter  makes  an  apparent  confusion 
with  "Curial,"  and  because  "Aulic"  (in  connection  with  "councillor,"  etc.)  is 
good  recognized  English  for  "  belonging  to  the  Palace.'1''  This  Dante  explains  to 
be  his  meaning,  as  he  does  that  of  Curiale  to  be  "suitable  to  a  Court  of  Justice, 
and  arrived  at  by  judicial  processes  of  balancing  and  selection."  "  Cardinal " 
it  is,  of  course,  as  being  the  centre  —  the  hinge  —  on  which  all  the  dialects  turn  ; 
and  "Illustrious"  because  of  its  beauty  and  dignity. 


80  DANTE 

our  thought  than  a  horse  is  to  a  soldier,  and  as  the  best  horses  suit 
the  best  soldiers,  the  best  speech,  as  we  have  said,  will  suit  the  best 
thoughts.  But  thoughts  cannot  be  best  save  where  there  is  know- 
ledge and  wit  ;  therefore,  the  best  speech  only  suits  those  in  whom 
wit  and  knowledge  are  found. 


After,  in  Chap.  II,  deciding  that  the  best  subjects  are  salus,  Venus,  virtus 
(that  is  to  say,  Self-preservation  (=  Arms  or  War),  Love,  and  Virtue  in  the 
double  sense  of  Philosophy  and  Religion)  and  in  III  allotting  the  order  of 
dignity  in  form  to  the  Canzone,  the  ballade,  and  the  sonnet,  Dante  proceeds 
in  IV  sq.  to  explain  the  characteristics  and  constituents  of  the  best  poetry. 

Poetry  is  nothing  else  than  a  rhetorical  fiction  musically 
arranged.1  n  iv  19)  20 

Now  we  appear  to  use  the  tragic  (he  has  just  explained  this  to 
mean  no  more  than  "  higher  ")  style,  when  with  Weight  of  Mean- 
ing2 there  accords  as  well  Magnificence  of  Verse,8  as  Elevation  of 
Style,4  and  Excellence  of  Vocabulary.5 

The  Weightiest  Meanings  having  been  already  indicated  in  the  classi- 
fication —  Safety,  Love,  Virtue,  —  and  the  most  Magnificent  Verse  having 
been,  in  Chap.  V,  decided  to  be  the  hendecasyllable  —  actually  the  staple 
Italian  line,  —  Dante  proceeds  to  Construction  ("  Style  ")  and  Diction. 
Of  the  former  he  distinguishes  four  kinds,  more  easily  recognizable  in 
themselves  than  in  his  Latin  examples  of  them,  while  translation  inevitably 
puts  these  still  more  out  of  knowledge.  The  four  are,  (1)  The  "  insipid  " 
or  "  tasteless,"  which  merely  states  matter  with  no  art  ;  (2)  the  "  merely 
tasteful,"  which  arranges  the  expression  in  grammatical  order  of  com- 
position, but  no  more  ;  (3)  the  "  tasteful  and  elegant  "  (venustus),  which 
adds  some  rhetorical  graces  ;  and  (4)  the  "  tasteful,  elegant,  and  elevated  " 
(excelsus*),  which  belongs  to  real  masters  of  style  ("  Illustrious  dictionists  " 
—  dictatores).  This  last  is  to  be  sought  for.  And  then  the  matter  of 
the  little  treatise  which  is  of  general  interest  culminates  in  the  following 

1  As  is  natural,  some  have  wished  to  see  in  this  a  notion  on  Dante's  part  that 
all  poetry  must  be  actually  sung.   There  is,  however,  not  the  slightest  justification 
for  this  in  the  context.      "Music"  here  clearly  means  "metrical  harmony." 
(7/.,  who  will,  the  Convito  I.  vii. 

2  Gravitas  Sentential.  *  Constructionis  Elatio. 

3  Superbia  Carminum.  6  Excellentia  Vocabnlorum. 


THE  ILLUSTRIOUS  VULGAR  IN  POETRY  81 

monumental  chapter  on  Poetic  Diction  —  or,  as  it  has  been  called,  the 
"  Chapter  of  the  Sieve."  Its  own  diction  is  sometimes  rather  hard  to 
translate  succinctly  and  satisfactorily ;  but  its  own  conclusion  is  none 
the  less  surely  justified,  "  Let  what  has  been  said  suffice  to  a  generous 
intelligence."  It  has,  however,  been  thought  permissible  to  annotate  a 
little  more  freely  than  usual,  in  order  to  bring  out  the  meaning. 

The  division  of  our  progress  next  in  order  demands  illustration 
of  the  proposition  that  only  grand1  words  are  worthy  to  hold  office 
under  exalted  style.  So  let  us  protest,  first  of  all,  that  it  is  by  no 
means  the  least  task  of  the  reason  to  distinguish  words,  inasmuch 
as  a  great  many  varieties  of  them  can  be  found.  Some  words  are 
childish,  some  womanish,  some  manly ;  and  of  this  latter  class 
some  are  rustic  ("sylvan"),  some  urban;  and  of  those  which  we 
call  urban,  we  feel  some  to  be  combed  and  slippery,  some  shaggy 
and  rumpled.2  Of  these,  the  combed  and  the  shaggy  are  those  which 
we  call  grand ;  but  the  slippery  and  the  rumpled  are  those  which 
sound  superfluously.3 .  .  .  You  must  therefore  look  to  it,  reader, 
how  carefully  it  behoves  you  to  sift  words,  in  order  to  get  together 
excellent  ones.  For  if  you  consider  the  Illustrious  Vernacular, 
which,  as  was  said  above,  poets  in  the  vulgar  tongue  must  use  when 
they  write  in  a  high  style  (tragice,  v.  sup.},  you  will  only  allow  the 
noblest  words  to  be  left  in  your  sieve.  In  which  number  you  can 
by  no  means  admit  "  childish  "  words,  because  of  their  familiarity, 
such  as  mamma*  and  babbo,  mate  and  pate;  nor  "womanish"  ones, 
because  of  their  effeminacy,  as  dolciada  and  placevole;  nor  rustic 

1  Grandiosa.     The  somewhat  unfavourable  sense  of  this  actual  word  in 
English  does  not  necessarily  exist  in  other  languages,  e.g.,  French;  but  it 
seems  better  to  avoid  it  here. 

2  So  the  MS.     Some  (whom  I  am  rather  surprised  to  find  that  Dr.  Moore 
follows)  twist  the  pairs,  to  suit  what  follows,  reading  pexa  et  hirsuta,  lubrica 
et  reburra.     But  surely  there  is  no  justification  for  this,  even  the  apparent 
gain  being  unreal,  while  the  first  yoking  is  unintelligible.     The  terms  were 
certainly  in  one  case  (pexa),  and  perhaps  in  others,  already  usitate.     Eeburra 
(cf.  French  a  rebours)  is  "  brushed  or  growing  the  wrong  way." 

8  This  may  seem  odd  for  lubrica  —  but  it  probably  signifies  excess  of  mere 
sound  in  either  direction,  that  of  smoothness  or  that  of  roughness. 

4  It  is  necessary  to  keep  the  Italian  words,  because  it  is  on  their  actual  sound 
that  D.  lays  most  stress. 


82  DANTE 

words,  for  their  roughness,  as  gregia 1  and  others  ;  nor  the  slippery  and 
rumpled  among  urban  words,  as  femina  and  corpo.  So  you  will  see 
that  only  the  combed  and  shaggy  urban  words  remain  to  you  —  for 
these  are  the  noblest,  and  are  members  of  the  Illustrious  Vernacular. 
Now  we  call  those  "  combed  "  which  are  trisyllabic  or  very  nearly 
so,2  without  aspirates,  without  acute  or  circumflexed  accent,  or 
double  z's  and  x's,  without  the  collocation  of  two  liquids,  or  the 
position  of  a  liquid  immediately  after  a  mute  —  and  which  leave  the 
speaker's  lips,  as  it  were,  with  a  certain  sweetness,  as  amore,  donna, 
disio,  virtute,  donare,  letizia,  salute,  securitate,  difesa.  And  we  call 
"  shaggy  "  all  words,  besides  these,  which  appear  to  be  either  neces- 
sary or  ornamental  constituents  of  the  Illustrious  Vernacular.  By 
"  necessary,"  we  mean  those  for  which  we  cannot  substitute  others 
—  monosyllables  like  si,  vo,me,  etc.,  interjections,  and  many  others. 
By  "ornamental,"  we  mean  all  polysyllables  which  when  mixed 
with  "  combed  "  words  make  a  beautifully  harmonious  conjunction, 
although  they  may  have  [the  discords  above  mentioned]. 

Dante  then  adds  instances,  extending  to  the  giant  sovramagnijicentissima- 
mente,  and  hints  that  he  should  have  no  objection  even  to  onorificabilitudinitate 
(once  in  its  Latin  form  dear  to  schoolboys  !)  if  it  were  not  actually  too  long 
for  a  hendecasyllabic  line.  Of  course  his  remarks,  in  the  latter  part  of  the 
above,  are  adjusted  to  the  requirements  of  "  beautiful  words  "  in  Italian;  but 
the  principle  of  the  "  beautiful  word  "  itself  applies,  no  less  of  course,  to  any 
language,  and  it  is  here  laid  down  as  it  never  had  been  before,  and  has 
seldom  been  since. 

DANTE  —  APPENDIX 
CRITICAL  PASSAGES  FROM  OTHER  WORKS 

(These  few  and  short  passages  are  added  because  they  have  sometimes 
been  thought  to  clash  with,  or  at  least  to  modify,  the  tenor  of  the  D.  V.  E. 
They  will  mislead  no  one  who  remembers  the  many-sidedness  of  literature, 
and  therefore  of  the  criticism  of  literature,  and  they  may  be  useful  as  a 
reminder  of  this.) 

1  For  this  Latin-Italian  dislike  to  collocations  with  r,  v.  sup.,  Quintilian, 
p.  70,  on  fr.     They  are  far  from  unpleasing  to  an  English  ear. 

2  i.e.,  such  as  donna,  where  the  play  of  the  voice  on  the  double  n  adds,  and 
letizia,  where  the  confluence  of  the  ia  subtracts,  something  like  a  syllable. 


CRITICAL  PASSAGES  FROM  OTHER  WORKS  83 

a.  (The  Virtues  of  Latin.)     Latin  is  enduring  and  incorruptible 
— the  vulgar  tongue  is  unstable  and  corruptible.  .  .  .     Latin  can 
express    many  conceptions  which,  the  vulgar  tongue  cannot.  .  .  . 
The  vulgar  tongue  follows  custom,  Latin  methodic  rule. 

Convito  i.  5. 

In  this  passage  Dante  promises  the  D.  V.  E.,  but  uses  expressions 
given  above  which  seem  to  conflict  with  the  later  book.  The  contradiction 
is,  however,  only  superficial.  He  had  evidently,  at  the  time  of  writing  the 
Convito,  not  fully  elaborated  his  idea  of  the  Illustrious  Vernacular ;  though, 
even  here,  he  asserts  "  a  natural  love  of  our  own  tongue."  The  other 
commendations  of  Latin  are  ad  hoc  —  special,  not  general. 

After  this  he  proceeds  to  show  that,  for  his  actual  purpose,  Latin  would 
have  been  unsuitable.  And  so  the  book  which  exalts  Latin  is  written  in 
the  vernacular ;  the  book  which  exalts  the  vernacular  in  Latin !  Which 
things  are  an  open  allegory. 

b.  (The  Destructiveness  of  Translation.)     Moreover,  be  it  known 
to  all,  that  nothing  harmonized  by  the  laws  of   music  (v.  sup., 
Definition  of  Poetry)  can  be  translated  from  its  own  tongue  into 
another  without  breaking  all  its  sweetness  and  harmony. 

Ibid.  i.  7. 

c.  (Form  and  Letter.)     The  exposition  of  the  letter  of  the  work 
is  nothing  but  the  setting  forth  of  its  form. 

Taken  from  the  highly  scholastic  remarks  on  the  Commedia  in  the 
Epistle  to  Can  Grande  (ed.  Moore,  Epist.  x.  11.  285-287),  which,  by  the 
way,  is  not  universally  admitted  as  genuine. 

d.  (The  dolce  stil  nuovo.)    "  I  am  one  who  note  when  LQVC  inspires, 
and  proceed  to  signify  what  he  says  within  me."    "  0  brother,  now 
I  see/'  said  he,  "  the  knot  which  restrained  the  Notary,  and  Guittone, 
•and  myself,  from  reaching  the  sweet  new  style  that  I  hear.     I  per- 
ceive well  how  your  pens  go  closely  after  the  dictator,  which  cer- 
tainly did  not  happen  to  (?)  ours.     And  he  who  sets  himself  to  look 
beyond  (or  to  go  beyond  ?)  sees  no  more  from  the  one  style  to  the 

Other'"  Purg.  xxiv.  55-62. 


84  DANTE 

This  passage,  in  which  the  interlocutor  is  Bonagiunta  of  Lucca  (who 
had  written  in  the  local  dialect,  not  in  the  "  Illustrious  "),  is  complicated 
in  its  difficulty  by  various  readings.  I  have  followed  here  the  text  of 
Mr.  A.  J.  Butler,  and  have  not  gone  far  from  his  translation  —  indeed,  it  is 
not  easy  to  alter  this  while  keeping  to  the  Italian.  Dittator  is  probably 
Love  —  but  not,  I  think,  necessarily ;  nor  do  I  see,  as  I  believe  some  have 
seen,  an  antidote  to  the  (presumed)  bane  of  the  great  praise  of  words  in 
the  D.  V.  E.  Bonagiunta,  I  imagine,  is  simply  admitting,  in  himself  and 
the  other  predecessors  of  Dante,  the  old  wish  "  to  write  better  than  you 
can"  (v.  sup.  p.  69)  — to  be  unnatural  and  distorted  in  conception, instead 
of  expressing  what  naturally  occurs  to  you  in  the  best  way  possible. 
Those  who  do  this,  he  says,  lose  their  way  between  one  style  and  the 
other,  —  "  do  not  see  from  "  this  to  that. 


XIV 

SELECTIONS   FKOM   THE   ITALIAN   CRITICS   OF   THE 
SIXTEENTH   CENTURY 

The  Italian  critics  of  the  16th  century,  or  at  least  of  its  three  later 
quarters,  founded  criticism  anew,  and  taught  it  to  all  Europe,  though  by 
no  means  as  teachers  who  thoroughly  understood  what  they  taught,  or 
even  what  they  meant  to  teach.  Accepted  with  almost  implicit  docility 
up  to  Milton's  time,  they  gave  way  in  the  later  17th  century  to  the  far 
shallower  school  of  French  "  neo-Classics,"  which  was  represented  by 
Boileau ;  and,  until  quite  recently,  they  have  been  very  little  studied. 
The  first  attempt  at  synoptic  consideration  of  them  was  in  Mr.  Joel  Elias 
Spingarn's  Literary  Criticism  in  the  Renaissance  (New  York  and  London 
1899)  ;  and  the  Fourth  Book  of  the  present  editor's  History  of  Criticism 
(vol.  ii;  Edinburgh  1902)  is  very  mainly  occupied  with  them.  The  original 
texts  are  unfortunately,  in  not  a  few  cases,  rather  difficult  of  access. 

A.     VIDA  (1527)  ON  THE  NECESSITY  OF  STEALING 

Come  then,  all  ye  youths  !  and,  careless  of  censure,  give  yourselves 
up  to  STEAL  and  drive  tlie  spoil  from  every  source !  Unhappy 
is  he  (for  such  have  often  been  found)  who,  rashly  trusting  to  his 
own  strength  and  art,  as  though  in  need  of  no  external  help,  in  his 
audacity  refuses  to  follow  the  trustworthy  footsteps  of  the  ancients, 
abstaining,  alas  !  unwisely  from  plunder,  and  thinking  to  spare 
others.  0  vain  superstition  !  0  care  unhallowed  by  Phoebus  ! 
Not  long  do  such  men  prosper  —  often  they  outlive  their  own 
works,  and,  unpraised,  lament  their  short-lived  offspring  before  their 
own  death,  and  living  see  the  funeral  of  their  fame.  How  [deeply] 
could  they  wish  to  have  spared  their  idle  labour  and  to  have  learnt 
other  arts  from  their  parents  !  Often  I  love  to  play  on  ancient 
phrase,  and  utter  some  far  other  thought  in  the  same  words.  Nor 
will  any  wise  man  care  to  blame  my  self-confessing  thefts  —  thefts 

85 


86  ITALIAN  CRITICS  OF  SIXTEENTH  CENTURY 

open  and  to  be  praised  and  approved  by  our  children's  children.1 
So  far  be  it  from  me  to  wish  to  hide  my  stolen  goods,  and  conceal 
my  plunder,  from  any  fear  of  the  penalty  of  infamy ! 

Poet.  Lib.  iii  (vol.  ii  pp.  178-179  in  Pope's  Selecta 
Poemata  Italorum,  London  1740). 

B.     DANIELLO   (1536).      THE  FUNCTIONS   OF  POETS  AND  POETRY 

The  Poet  expresses,  with  all  gravity  and  jucundity,  many  things 
which  the  Philosopher  is  wont,  in  his  disputations,  to  treat  with 
few  and  slight  words. 

Painting  is  a  tacit  and  dumb  Poetry  ;  Poetry,  a  speaking  picture. 
As  the  imitation  of  the  painter  is  done  with  the  stylus,  and  the 
pencil,  and  a  diversity  of  colours,  so  is  that  of  the  Poet  with  tongue 
and  pen,  with  numbers  and  harmonies. 

I  speak  of  mingling  true  things  with  false  and  feigned,  because 
the  Poet  is  not  bound,  like  the  Historian,  to  describe  things  as 
they  actually  are  and  have  happened,  but  (to  make  them)  such  as 
they  ought  to  have  been.2  Poetka  pp>  19>  25,  41  (Venice  1536). 

C.     MINTURNO   (1559).     THE  THREE  FUNCTIONS   OF  THE  POET 

It  will  be  the  business  of  the  poet  so  to  speak  in  his  verses  that 
he  may  teach,  that  he  may  delight,  that  he  may  move.8 

De  Poeta  Lib.  ii  p.  102  (Venice  1559). 

1  Vida,  to  do  him  justice,  was  no  false  prophet.     Nearly  half  a  score  gen- 
erations, to  all  but  the  end  of  the  18th  century,  emphatically  endorsed  the 
"Gospel  of  Plunder,"  from  the  Ancients,  so  unblushingly  and  enthusiastically 
preached  in  these  lines. 

2  These  pronouncements  are  of  course  drawn  straight  from  the  ancients. 
But  they  are  important  as  appearing  in  one  of  the  very  earliest  Poetics  written 
in  any  modern  European  vernacular. 

3  The  two  first  of  these  dicta  were  hackneyed  ever  since  Horace,  if  not 
earlier — the  last,  if  not  exactly  new,  had  seldom  been  formulated  side  by  side 
with  them.      It  is  of  the  greatest  importance  as  embodying  the  Longinian 
doctrine  of  "transport,"  v.  sup.,  but  may  have  been  directly  suggested  by 
the  remarks  of  Cicero  and  others  on  the  function  of  the  orator. 


SCALIGER,   CASTELVETRO,   GIRALDI  87 

D.     SCALIGER,  J.  C.  (1561).     THE  CONNECTION  OF  THE  POET   AND 

HIS   VERSE 

The  name  of  the  poet  is  not,  then,  as  men  have  thought,  drawn 
from  his  being  a  "maker"  in  the  sense  of  using  fiction,  but  from 
his  being  a  maker  of  verses.1  Poe(  L  H  (p  6>  ed  2>  s  z  1581) 

E.     CASTELVETRO   (1570).     THE  THREE  UNITIES 

But  it  is  evident  that,  in  tragedy  and  in  comedy,  the  plot  ("  Fable  ") 
contains  one  action  only,  or  two  that  by  their  interdependence  can  be 
considered  one  .  .  .  not  because  the  fable  itself  is  unsuited  to  con- 
tain more  actions  than  one,  but  because  the  space  of  time,  of  twelve 
hours  at  most,  in  which  the  action  is  represented,  and  the  strait 
limits  of  the  place  in  which  it  is  represented  likewise,  do  not  per- 
mit a  multitude  of  actions.2 

Poetica  d'  Aristotele,  Part.  Princ.  iii,  Particell.  vi  (p.  179,  ed.  2,  Basle  1576). 

The  five  texts  just  given  represent  the  trend  of  that  "  classic,"  or  "  neo- 
classic,"  criticism  which  was  the  principal  and  victorious  element  in  the 
Italian  writings.  The  next  two  give  samples  of  those  "  thoughts  of  the 
morrow  "  which,  neglected  at  the  time,  come  to  their  own  later. 

F.    CINTHIO  GIRALDI   (1554).     THE  LIBERTY  OF  ROMANCE 

This  may  show  that  the  laws  given  by  Aristotle  do  not  extend 
save  to  the  poems  which  are  concerned  with  a  single  action ;  and 

1  On  this  immortal  question,  which  Scaliger  decides  in  his  usual  peremptory 
fashion,  the  Renaissance  was  no  more  at  one  than  other  times. 

2  There  has  been  some  controversy  on  the  point  whether  Scaliger  or  Castel- 
vetro  is  entitled  to  the  first  formulation  of  the  hard  and  fast  Trinity  of  Unities 
in  Drama.     I  have  no  doubt  that  Castelvetro  deserves  the  honour,  or  dishonour, 
whichever  it  be.     But  there  is  the  further  difficulty  of  deciding  between  the 
rather  numerous  passages  in  which  Castelvetro  himself  necessarily  (his  book 
being  not  an  original  and  substantive  treatise,  but  a  commentary  on  Aristotle) 
refers  to  the  subject.     I  think  the  above  is  on  the  whole  the  most  cardinal.     It 
will  be  observed  that  the  critic,  instead  of  laying,  as  his  author  had  laid,  stress 
almost  entirely  on  the  Unity  of  Action,  positively  subordinates  it  to  those  of 
Time  and  Place,  on  the  former  of  which  A.  had  touched  slightly,  and  on  the 
latter  not  at  all. 


88  ITALIAN  CRITICS  OF  SIXTEENTH  CENTURY 

that  all  the  poetic  compositions  which  contain  deeds  of  heroes  {e.g., 
Romances)  are  not  included  within  the  limits  which  A.  has  set  to 
the  poets  who  write  single-action  poems.1 

Discorso  del  Romanzi,  vol.  i  p.  26  of  Scritti  Estetici  di  C.  G., 
ed.  Daelli  (Milan  1864). 

G.     PATRIZZI   (1586).     "NOTHING  NECESSARILY  DEPENDS  ON  THE 

SUBJECT  " 

Let  us  pass  to  a  universal  and  true  conclusion  —  that  the  matter 
comprised  in  science,  in  art,  in  history,  can  be  a  convenient  subject 
for  poetry  and  poems  PROVIDED  THAT  IT  BE  POETICALLY  TREATED.2 

Delia  Poetica,  La  Deca  Disputata,  Lib.  viii  p.  175  (Ferrara  1586). 

1  This  contention  was  urged  by  Cinthio  (the  famous  novelist)  with  a  special 
and  limited  object  —  that  of  freeing  Ariosto,  and  the  other  Italian  romance- 
writers,  from  the  objections  brought  by  severe  "classical"  censors.     It  evid- 
ently,  however,  contains  the  germ  of  a  much  wider  and  more  audacious 
Declaration  of  Independence.     "  Kinds  which  the  Ancients  knew  not,  are  free 
from  the  Ancients'  laws." 

2  This  bombshell,  mine,  Samson's  tug,  or  whatever  else  it  may  be  best  called 
—  at  least  from  one  point  of  view  of  the  effect  of  an  admission  of  its  truth  on 
the  edifice  of  classical  criticism  reared  by  the  skill  of  many  great  ones,  for  two 
thousand  years  and  more,  from  Aristotle  to  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold  —  seems  to  have 
passed  almost  unnoticed  at  the  time,  and  for  long  afterwards.     It  is  even  not 
quite  clear  whether  Patrizzi  (Patrici  or  Patricio)  himself  entirely  realized  its 
effect,  and  that  of  the  Deca  Istoriale,  or  historic  survey  of  poetic  products, 
which  accompanied  his  Deca  Disputata.     But  it  must  be  quite  clear,  as  well 
to  those  who  agree  with  the  opinion,  as  to  those  who  do  not,  that  the  allowance 
of  any  subject  "which  can  be  poetically  treated""  makes  the  treatment,  the 
form,  and  not  the  subject  itself,  the  matter  of  first  importance ;  while  histor- 
ical consideration  tends  to  negative  the  doctrine  of  fixed  kinds,  in  form  itself. 
But  for  the  moment  the  other  was  the  winning  side ;  and,  when  it  came  to  be 
the  losing,  men  like  Cinthio  and  Patrizzi  had  been  long  forgotten  and  did  not 
even  then  receive  their  due  at  once. 


XV 

SELECTIONS   FEOM   THE   EARLIER   ELIZABETHAN 

CRITICS 

A.     WILSON  (1553).     AGAINST  INKHORN  TERMS1 

Among  all  other  lessons  this  should  first  be  learned,  that  we 
never  affect  any  strange  inkhorn  terms,  but  so  speak  as  is  commonly 
received ;  neither  seeking  to  be  overfine,  nor  yet  living  overcareless, 
using  our  speech  as  most  men  do,  and  ordering  our  wits  as  the 
fewest  have  done.  Some  seek  so  far  for  outlandish  English,  that 
they  forget  altogether  their  mothers'  language.  And  I  dare  swear 
this,  if  some  of  their  mothers  were  alive,  they  were  not  able  to  tell 
what  they  say ;  and  yet  these  fine  English  clerks  will  say  they 
speak  in  their  mother  tongue,  'if  a  man  should  charge  them  with 
counterfeiting  the  King's  English.  Some  far-journeyed  gentlemen, 
at  their  return  home,  like  as  they  love  to  go  in  foreign  apparel,  so 
they  will  powder  their  talk  with  oversea  language.  He  that  cometh 
lately  out  of  France  will  talk  French-English,  and  never  blush  at 
the  matter.  Another  chops  in  with  English  Italianated,  and 
applieth  the  Italian  phrase  to  our  English  speaking,  the  which  is 
as  if  an  orator  that  professeth  to  utter  his  mind  in  plain  Latin, 
would  needs  speak  poetry,  and  far-fetched  colours  of  strange  antiqu- 
ity. The  lawyer  will  store  his  stomach  with  the  prating  of  pedlars. 
The  auditor,  in  making  his  account  and  reckoning,  cometh  in  with 
sise  sould  and  cater  denere  for  6s  4d  The  fine  courtier  will  talk 
nothing  but  Chaucer.  The  mystical  wise  men  and  poetical  clerks  will 
speak  nothing  but  quaint  proverbs  and  blind  allegories,  delighting 

1  This  setting  of  the  face  against  anything  like  "  precious  "  or  unusual  diction 
was  the  attitude  alike  of  Wilson  and  his  more  famous  friends  Cheke  and 
Ascham.  It  may  be  said  to  be  the  main  characteristic  of  this,  the  earliest 
English  critical  school. 


90  EARLIER  ELIZABETHAN  CRITICS 

much  in  their  own  darkness,  especially  when  none  can  tell  what 
they  do  say.  The  unlearned  or  foolish  fantastical  that  smells 
but  of  learning,  (such  fellows  as  have  seen  learned  men  in  their 
days)  will  so  Latin  their  tongues  that  the  simple  cannot  but  wonder 
at  their  talk,  and  think  surely  they  speak  by  some  revelation.  I 
know  them  that  think  Rhetoric  to  stand  wholly  upon  dark  words, 
and  he  that  can  catch  an  inkhorn  word  by  the  tail,  him  they  count 
to  be  a  fine  Englishman  and  a  good  rhetorician. 

Art  of  Rhetorique,  ed.  2,  London  1563,  fol.  82  v.-S3  r. 


B.     GASCOIGNE   (1575).     NOTES   ON  VERSE  MAKING 

The  first  and  most  necessary  point  that  ever  I  found  meet  to  be 
considered,  in  making  of  a  delectable  poem,  is  this,  to  ground  it 
upon  some  fine  invention.  For  it  is  not  enough  to  roll  in  pleasant 
words,  nor  yet  to  thunder  in  Rym,  ram,  ruff,  by  letter  (quoth  my 
master  Chaucer)  nor  yet  to  abound  in  apt  vocables  or  epithets, 
unless  the  invention  have  in  it  also  aliquid  sails.  By  this  aliquid 
salis  I  mean  some  good  and  fine  device,  shewing  the  quick  capacity 
of  a  writer ;  and  where  I  say  some  good  and  fine  invention,  I  mean 
that  I  would  have  it  both  fine  and  good.  For  many  inventions  are 
so  superfine,  that  they  are  Vix  good.  And  again  many  inventions 
are  good,  and  yet  not  finely  handed.  .  .  . 

If  I  should  undertake  to  write  in  praise  of  a  gentlewoman,  I 
would  neither  praise  her  crystal  eye,  nor  her  cherry  lip,  etc.  For 
these  things  are  trita  et  obvia.  .  .  . 

Your  invention  being  once  devised,  take  heed  that  neither  pleasure 
of  rhyme  nor  variety  of  device,  do  carry  you  from  it ;  for  as  to  use 
obscure  and  dark  phrases  in  a  pleasant  sonnet  is  nothing  delectable, 
so  to  intermingle  merry  jests  in  a  serious  matter  is  an  Indecorum. 

Gascoigne  then  passes  to  the  subject  of  Prosody  proper,  which  it  was 
high  time  to  treat  in  English.  He  gives  special  caution  against  irregular 
verse  and  against  inversion  of  accent  such  as  Treasure  for  Treasure  —  a 
fault  very  common  in  Wyatt  and  too  common  in  Surrey.  He  laments,  but 
admits,  that  English  has  been  reduced  to  the  iambic  foot. 


GASCOIGNE  91 

Commonly  nowadays  in  English  rhymes  (for  I  dare  not  call  them 
English  verses  *)  we  use  none  other  order  than  a  foot  of  two  sylla- 
bles, whereof  the  first  is  depressed  or  made  short,  and  the  second 
elevate  or  made  long;  and  that  sound  or  scanning  continueth 
throughout  the  verse.  We  have  used  in  times  past  other  kinds  of 
metres ;  as  for  example  this  following : 

No  wight  in  the  world,  that  wealth  can  attain, 
Unless  he  believe  that  all  is  but  vain. 

Also  our  father  Chaucer  hath  used  the  same  liberty  in  feet  and 
measures  that  the  Latinists  do  use.  .  .  .  And  surely  I  can  lament 
that  we  are  fallen  into  such  a  plain  and  simple  manner  of  writing 
that  there  is  none  other  foot  used  but  one.  .  .  . 

Unconscious  of  the  coming  salvation,  through  the  drama,  by  the  read- 
mission  of  trisyllabic  feet,  Gascoigne,  like  a  good  patriot,  tries  to  make  the 
best  of  his  actual  Sparta,  and  gives  very  sensible  cautions  as  to  unnatural 
inversion  of  the  order  as  well  as  of  the  accent  of  words,  etc.  He  objects 
to  polysyllables  —  it  is  curious  that  there  has  been  a  kind  of  see-saw  in  our 
history  between  this  objection  and  the  other  to  monosyllables  — ;  exhorts 
men  to  beware  of  rhyme  without  reason  ;  to  be  moderate  in  figures;  not  to 
hunt  the  letter  [alliterate]  to  death ;  to  eschew  strange  words  but  not  be 
"  too  easy"  ;  to  keep  English  order  and  composition ;  to  use  but  not  abuse 
that  "  shrewd  fellow  "  poetical  licence.  And  then  he  delivers  himself  on 
the  pause,  in  a  passage  which  must  be  given  at  length  because,  though  the 
opinion  expressed  hampers  English  poetry  terribly,  and  was  fortunately 
set  aside  by  writers  so  different  as  Shakespeare  and  Milton,  it  infested 
English  criticism  for  the  greater  part  of  the  next  two  centuries  and  has 
found  defenders  —  notably  Dr.  Guest  —  in  the  nineteenth. 

There  are  also  certain  pauses  or  rests  in  a  verse  which  may  be 
called  caesures,  whereof  I  would  be  loath  to  stand  long,  since  it  is  at 
discretion  of  the  writer,  and  they  have  been  first  devised  (as  should 
seem)  by  the  Musicians ;  but  yet  thus  much  I  will  adventure  to 
write,  that  in  mine  opinion,  in  a  verse  of  eight  syllables,  the  pause 
will  stand  best  in  the  midst ;  in  a  verse  of  ten  it  will  best  be  placed 
at  the  end  of  the  first  four  syllables  ;  in  a  verse  of  twelve  in  the 
midst.  In  verse  of  twelve  in  the  first  and  fourteen  in  the  second, 

1  Apparently  because  the  word  would  too  much  suggest  Latin  verses,  with 
their  licence  of  substitution. 


92  EARLIER  ELIZABETHAN  CRITICS 

we  place  the  pause  commonly  in  the  midst  of  the  first,  and  at  the 
end  of  the  first  eight  syllables  in  the  second.  In  Rhythm  Royal  it 
is  at  the  writer's  discretion,  and  forceth  not  where  the  pause  be 
until  the  end  of  the  line. 

Note  that  Gascoigne's  opinion  is  sensibly  mitigated  by  his  allowance  of 
"  discretion  "  generally,  and  specially  in  rhyme  royal,  while  the  directions 
for  "  pausing"  the  Alexandrine  and  fourteener  ["  Poulter's  measure  "]  come 
to  little  more  than  a  recognition  of  the  fact  that  this  measure  is  much  better 
arranged  as  the  quatrain  of  six,  six,  eight,  six.  The  rest  of  his  little 
treatise  is  occupied  with  a  short  account  of  this  and  other  stanzas,  and  of 
couplet  measures,  including  "riding  rhyme"  —  the  Chaucerian  couplet. 


C.     SIDNEY   (1581?).     APOLOGY  FOR  POETRY 
THE   ANTIQUITY   AND   NOBILITY   OF   POETRY1 

I  will  give  you  a  nearer  example  of  myself,  who  (I  know  not 
by  what  mischance)  in  these  my  not  old  years  and  idlest  times, 
having  slipt  into  the  title  of  a  Poet,  am  provoked  to  say  something 
unto  you  in  the  defence  of  that  my  unelected  vocation ;  which  if  I 
handle  with  more  good  will  than  good  reasons,  bear  with  me,  sith 
the  scholar  is  to  be  pardoned  that  followeth  the  steps  of  his 
Master.  And  yet  I  must  say,  that  as  I  have  just  cause  to  make  a 
pitiful  defence  of  poor  Poetry,  which,  from  almost  the  highest  esti- 
mation of  learning,  is  fallen  to  be  the  laughing-stock  of  children ; 
so  have  I  need  to  bring  some  more  available  proofs  :  sith  the  former 
is  by  no  man  barred  of  his  deserved  credit,  the  silly  latter  hath 
had  even  the  names  of  Philosophers  used  to  the  defacing  of  it,  with 
great  danger  of  civil  war  among  the  Muses. 

1  These  prologues  of  general  defence  of  Poetry,  against  what  we  may  call  the 
Puritan-Platonic  impeachments  of  it,  were  almost  a  regulation  with  the  Italian 
critics.  Sidney  undoubtedly  followed  these ;  though  whether  he  is  here  so 
directly  indebted  to  one  in  particular  (Minturno)  as  Mr.  Spingarn  thinks,  may 
be  doubtful.  This  Italian  influence  and  that  classical  one  of  the  objection  to 
the  unusual  word,  with  a  belief  in  the  Unities,  etc.,  chequer  curiously  his 
romantic  and  poetic  ardour,  and  are  specially  interesting  as  preceding  the  great 
poetic  and  dramatic  burst  which  carried  his  spirit  farther  and  dropped  the  letter 
of  his  cautions. 


SIDNEY  93 

And  first,  truly  to  all  them  that  professing  learning  inveigh 
against  Poetry  may  justly  be  objected,  that  they  go  very  near  to 
ungratefulness,  to  seek  to  deface  that,  which  in  the  noblest  nations 
and  languages  that  are  known,  hath  been  the  first  lightgiver  to  ignor- 
ance, and  first  Nurse,  whose  milk  by  little  and  little  enabled  them 
to  feed  afterwards  of  tougher  knowledges  :  and  will  they  now  play 
the  Hedgehog,  that  being  received  into  the  den,  drave  out  his  host  ? 
or  rather  the  Vipers,  that  with  their  birth  kill  their  Parents  ?  Let 
learned  Greece,  in  any  of  her  manifold  Sciences,  be  able  to  shew 
me  one  book  before  Musceus,  Homer,  axiAHeswdus:  all  three  nothing 
else  but  Poets.  Nay,  let  any  history  be  brought,  that  can  say 
any  Writers  were  there  before  them,  if  they  were  not  men  of  the 
same  skill,  as  Orpheus,  Linus,  and  some  others  are  named :  who, 
having  been  the  first  of  that  Country  that  made  pens  deliverers  of 
their  knowledge  to  their  posterity,  may  justly  challenge  to  be  called 
their  Fathers  in  learning:  for  not  only  in  time  they  had  this 
priority  (although  in  itself  antiquity  be  venerable),  but  went  before 
them  as  causes,  to  draw  with  their  charming  sweetness  the  wild 
untamed  wits  to  an  admiration  of  knowledge.  So  as  Amphlon  was 
said  to  move  stones  with  his  Poetry  to  build  Thebes ;  and  Orpheus 
to  be  listened  to  by  beasts,  indeed  stony  and  beastly  people :  so 
among  the  Romans  were  Livius  Andronicus,  and  Ennius  ;  so  in  the 
Italian  language,  the  first  that  made  it  aspire  to  be  a  Treasure- 
house  of  Science  were  the  Poets  Dante,  Boccace,  and  Petrarch;  so 
in  our  English  were  Gower  and  Chaucer. 

After  whom,  encouraged  and  delighted  with  their  excellent  fore- 
going, others  have  followed,  to  beautify  our  mother  tongue,  as  well 
in  the  same  kind  as  in  other  Arts.  This  did  so  notably  shew  itself, 
that  the  Philosophers  of  Greece  durst  not  a  long  time  appear  to 
the  world  but  under  the  masks  of  Poets.  So  Thales,  Empedocles, 
Parmenides  sang  their  natural  Philosophy  in  verses  :  so  did  Pyth- 
agoras and  Phocylides  their  moral  counsels  :  so  did  Tyrtccus  in  war 
matters,  and  Solon  in  matters  of  policy :  or  rather,  they  being 
Poets  did  exercise  their  delightful  vein  in  those  points  of  highest 
knowledge,  which  before  them  lay  hid  to  the  world.  For  that  wise 
Solon  was  directly  a  Poet  it  is  manifest,  having  written  in  verse  the 
notable  fable  of  the  Atlantic  Island,  which  Avas  continued  by  Plato. 


94  EARLIER  ELIZABETHAN  CRITICS 

And  truly,  even  Plato,  whosoever  well  eonsidereth,  shall  find, 
that  in  the  body  of  his  work,  though  the  inside  and  strength  were 
Philosophy,  the  skin  as  it  were  and  beauty  depended  most  of  Poetry ; 
for  all  standeth  upon  Dialogues,  wherein  he  feigneth  many  honest 
Burgesses  of  Athens  to  speak  of  such  matters,  that,  if  they  had 
been  set  on  the  rack,  they  would  never  have  confessed  them. 
Besides,  his  poetical  describing  the  circumstances  of  their  meetings, 
as  the  well  ordering  of  a  banquet,  the  delicacy  of  a  walk,  with 
interlacing  mere  tales,  as  Gyges*  Ring,  and  others,  which  who 
knoweth  not  to  be  flowers  of  Poetry  did  never  walk  into  Apollo's 
Garden. 

SACRED  POETRY 

Among  the  Romans  a  Poet  was  called  Vates,  which  is  as  much 
as  a  Diviner,  Fore-seer,  or  Prophet,  as  by  his  conjoined  words 
Vaticinium  and  Vaticinari  is  manifest :  so  heavenly  a  title  did  that 
excellent  people  bestow  upon  this  heart-ravishing  knowledge.  And 
so  far  were  they  carried  into  the  admiration  thereof,  that  they 
thought  in  the  chanceable  hitting  upon  any  such  verses  great  fore- 
tokens of  their  following  fortunes  were  placed.  Whereupon  grew 
the  word  of  Sortes  Virgiliance,  when  by  sudden  opening  VirgiVs 
book,  they  lighted  upon  any  verse  of  his  making:  whereof  the 
histories  of  the  Emperors'  lives  are  full :  As  of  Albinus  the 
Governor  of  our  Island,  who  in  his  childhood  met  with  this  verse : 

Arma  ameus  capio  nee  sat  rationis  in  armis: 

and  in  his  age  performed  it.  Which  although  it  were  a  very  vain 
and  godless  superstition,  as  also  it  was  to  think  that  spirits  were 
commanded  by  such  verses,  —  whereupon  this  word  charms,  derived 
of  Carmina,  cometh,  —  so  yet  serveth  it  to  shew  the  great  reverence 
those  wits  were  held  in.  And  altogether  not  without  ground,  since 
both  the  Oracles  of  Delphos  and  Sibylla's  prophecies  were  wholly 
delivered  in  verses.  For  that  same  exquisite  observing  of  number 
and  measure  in  words,  and  that  high  flying  liberty  of  conceit  proper 
to  the  Poet,  did  seem  to  have  some  divine  force  in  it. 

And  may  not  I  presume  a  little  further,  to  shew  the  reasonable- 
ness of  this  word  Vates  ?  And  say  that  the  holy  David's  Psalms 


SIDNEY  95 

are  a  divine  Poem?  If  I  do,  I  shall  not  do  it  without  the  testi- 
mony of  great  learned  men,  both  ancient  and  modern.  But  even 
the  name  Psalms  will  speak  for  me,  which,  being  interpreted,  is 
nothing  but  songs  :  then  that  it  is  fully  written  in  metre  as  all 
learned  Hebricians  agree,  although  the  rules  be  not  yet  fully  found : 
lastly  and  principally,  his  handling  his  prophecy,  which  is  merely 
poetical.  For  what  else  is  the  awaking  his  musical  instruments ; 
the  often  and  free  changing  of  persons  ;  his  notable  Prosopopoeias, 
when  he  maketh  you  as  it  were,  see  God  coming  in  his  Majesty ; 
his  telling  of  the  Beasts'  joy  fulness,  and  hills  leaping,  but  a  heav- 
enly poesy,  wherein  almost  he  sheweth  himself  a  passionate  lover 
of  that  unspeakable  and  everlasting  beauty  to  be  seen  by  the  eyes 
of  the  mind,  only  cleared  by  faith  ?  But  truly  now  having  named 
him,  I  fear  me  I  seem  to  profane  that  holy  name,  applying  it  to 
Poetry,  which  is  among  us  thrown  down  to  so  ridiculous  an  estima- 
tion :  but  they  that  with  quiet  judgments  will  look  a  little  deeper 
into  it,  shall  find  the  end  and  working  of  it  such,  as,  being  rightly 
applied,  deserveth  not  to  be  scourged  out  of  the  Church  of  God. 

LYRIC 

Is  it  the  Lyric  that  most  displeaseth,  who  with  his  tuned  Lyre, 
and  well  accorded  voice,  giveth  praise,  the  reward  of  virtue,  to 
virtuous  acts ;  who  gives  moral  precepts,  and  natural  Problems  ; 
who  sometimes  raiseth  up  his  voice  to  the  height  of  the  heavens, 
in  singing  the  lauds  of  the  immortal  God  ?  Certainly  I  must  con- 
fess my  own  barbarousness,  I  never  heard  the  old  song  of  Percy 
and  Douglas,  that  I  found  not  my  heart  moved  more  than  with  a 
Trumpet :  and  yet  is  it  sung  but  by  some  blind  Crowder,  with  no 
rougher  voice  than  rude  style :  which  being  so  evil  apparelled  in 
the  dust  and  cobwebs  of  that  uncivil  age,  what  would  it  work 
trimmed  in  the  gorgeous  eloquence  of  Pindar  ?  In  Hungary  I  have 
seen  it  the  manner  at  all  Feasts,  and  other  such  meetings,  to  have 
songs  of  their  Ancestors'  valour;  which  that  right  Soldier-like 
Nation  thinks  the  chiefest  kindlers  of  brave  courage.  The  incom- 
parable Lacedaemonians  did  not  only  carry  that  kind  of  Music  ever 
with  them  to  the  field ;  but  even  at  home,  as  such  songs  were  made, 


96  EARLIER  ELIZABETHAN  CRITICS 

so  were  they  all  content  to  be  the  singers  of  them,  when  the  lusty 
men  were  to  tell  what  they  did,  the  old  men  what  they  had  done, 
and  the  young  men  what  they  would  do.  And  where  a  man  may 
say,  that  Pindar  many  times  praiseth  highly  victories  of  small 
moment,  matters  rather  of  sport  than  virtue  :  as  it  may  be  answered, 
it  was  the  fault  of  the  Poet,  and  not  of  the  Poetry ;  so  indeed  the 
chief  fault  was  in  the  time  and  custom  of  the  Greeks,  who  set 
those  toys  at  so  high  a  price,  that  Philip  of  Macedon  reckoned  a 
horse-race  won  at  Olympus  among  his  three  fearful  felicities.  But 
as  the  inimitable  Pindar  often  did,  so  is  that  kind  most  capable  and 
most  fit  to  awake  the  thoughts  from  the  sleep  of  idleness,  to  embrace 
honourable  enterprises. 

ENGLISH   POETRY   AND   DRAMA 

Chaucer  undoubtedly  did  excellently  in  his  Troilus  and  Cressid; 
of  whom,  truly  I  know  not,  whether  to  marvel  more,  either  that  he, 
in  that  misty  time,  could  see  so  clearly,  or  that  we,  in  this  clear 
age,  walk  so  stumblingly  after  him.  Yet  had  he  great  wants,  fit  to 
be  forgiven  in  so  reverent  antiquity.  I  account  the  Mirror  of 
Magistrates  meetly  furnished  of  beautiful  parts  ;  and  in  the  Earl  of 
Surrey's  Lyrics  many  things  tasting  of  a  noble  birth,  and  worthy  of  a 
noble  mind.  The  Shepherd's  Kalendar  hath  much  Poetry  in  his 
Eglogues :  indeed  worthy  the  reading  if  I  be  not  deceived.  That 
same  framing  of  his  style  to  an  old  rustic  language  I  dare  not  allow, 
sith  neither  Theocritus  in  Greek,  Virgil  in  Latin,  nor  Sannazar  in 
Italian,  did  affect  it.  Besides  these,  do  I  not  remember  to  have 
seen  but  few  (to  speak  boldly)  printed,  that  have  poetical  sinews 
in  them.  For  proof  whereof  let  but  most  of  the  verses  be  put  in 
Prose,  and  then  ask  the  meaning ;  and  it  will  be  found,  that  one 
verse  did  but  beget  another,  without  ordering  at  the  first  what 
should  be  at  the  last :  which  becomes  a  confused  mass  of  words, 
with  a  tingling  sound  of  rhyme,  barely  accompanied  with  reason. 

Our  Tragedies,  and  Comedies  (not  without  cause  cried  out  against), 
observing  rules  neither  of  honest  civility  nor  of  skilful  Poetry, 
excepting  Gorboduc  (again,  I  say,  of  those  that  I  have  seen),  which 
notwithstanding,  as  it  is  full  of  stately  speeches  and  well  sounding 


SIDNEY  97 

Phrases,  climbing  to  the  height  of  Seneca  his  style,  and  as  full  of 
notable  morality,  which  it  doth  most  delightfully  teach,  and  so 
obtain  the  very  end  of  Poesy ;  yet  in  truth  it  is  very  defections 
in  the  circumstances  :  which  grieveth  me,  because  it  might  not 
remain  as  an  exact  model  of  all  Tragedies.  For  it  is  faulty  both 
in  Place  and  Time,  the  two  necessary  companions  of  all  corporal 
actions.  For  where  the  stage  should  always  represent  but  one 
place,  and  the  uttermost  time  presupposed  in  it  shoiild  be,  both  by 
Aristotle 's  precept  and  common  reason,  but  one  day :  there  is  both 
many  days,  and  many  places,  inartificially  imagined.  But  if  it  be 
so  in  Gorboduc,  how  much  more  in  all  the  rest  ?  where  you  shall 
have  Asia  of  the  one  side,  and  Afric  of  the  other,  and  so  many 
other  under-kingdoms,  that  the  Player,  when  he  cometh  in,  must 
ever  begin  with  telling  where  he  is ;  or  else,  the  tale  will  not  be 
conceived.  Now  ye  shall  have  three  Ladies  walk  to  gather  flowers, 
and  then  we  must  believe  the  stage  to  be  a  Garden.  By  and  by, 
we  hear  news  of  shipwreck  in  the  same  place,  and  then  we  are  to 
blame,  if  we  accept  it  not  for  a  Rock.  Upon  the  back  of  that, 
comes  out  a  hideous  Monster,  with  fire  and  smoke,  and  then  the 
miserable  beholders  are  bound  to  take  it  for  a  Cave.  While  in  the 
meantime,  two  Armies  fly  in,  represented  with  four  swords  and 
bucklers,  and  then  what  hard  heart  will  not  receive  it  for  a 
pitched  field? 

Now,  of  time  they  are  much  more  liberal.  For  ordinary  it  is 
that  two  young  Princes  fall  in  love :  after  many  traverses,  she  is 
got  with  child,  delivered  of  a  fair  boy ;  he  is  lost,  groweth  a  man, 
falls  in  love,  and  is  ready  to  get  another  child,  and  all  this  in  two 
hours'  space :  which  how  absurd  it  is  in  sense,  even  sense  may 
imagine,  and  Art  hath  taught,  and  all  ancient  examples  justified: 
and  at  this  day,  the  ordinary  Players  in  Italy  will  not  err  in.  Yet 
will  some  bring  in  an  example  of  Eunuchus  in  Terence,  that  con- 
taineth  matter  of  two  days,  yet  far  short  of  twenty  years.  True  it 
is,  and  so  was  it  to  be  played  in  two  days,  and  so  fitted  to  the  time 
it  set  forth.  And  though  Plautus  hath  in  one  place  done  amiss,  let 
us  hit  with  him,  and  not  miss  with  him. 

But  they  will  say,  how  then  shall  we  set  forth  a  story,  which  con- 
taineth  both  many  places,  and  many  times  ?  And  do  they  not  know, 


98  EARLIER  ELIZABETHAN  CRITICS 

that  a  Tragedy  is  tied  to  the  laws  of  Poesy,  and  not  of  History  ? 
not  bound  to  follow  the  story,  but  having  liberty,  either  to  feign 
a  quite  new  matter,  or  to  frame  the  history  to  the  most  tragical 
conveniency.  Again,  many  things  may  be  told  which  cannot  be 
shewed,  if  they  know  the  difference  betwixt  reporting  and  represent- 
ing. As  for  example,  I  may  speak  (though  I  am  here)  of  Peru,  and 
in  speech  digress  from  that  to  the  description  of  Calicut:  but  in 
action,  I  cannot  represent  it  without  Pacolefs  horse  :  and  so  was 
the  manner  the  Ancients  took,  by  some  Nuncius  to  recount  things 
done  in  former  time,  or  other  place. 

Lastly,  if  they  will  represent  an  history,  they  must  not  (as 
Horace  saith)  begin  Ab  ovo:  but  they  must  come  to  the  principal 
point  of  that  one  action,  which  they  will  represent.  By  example 
this  will  be  best  expressed.  I  have  a  story  of  young  Polydonis 
delivered  for  safety's  sake,  with  great  riches,  by  his  Father  Priamus 
to  Polymnestor  king  of  Thrace,  in  the  Troyan  war  time.  He  after 
some  years,  hearing  the  overthrow  of  Priamus,  for  to  make  the 
treasure  his  own,  murdereth  the  child :  the  body  of  the  child  is 
taken  up  by  Hecuba;  she  the  same  day  findeth  a  sleight  to  be 
revenged  most  cruelly  of  the  Tyrant.  Where  now  would  one  of 
our  Tragedy  writers  begin,  but  with  the  delivery  of  the  child  ? 
Then  should  he  sail  over  into  Thrace,  and  so  spend  I  know  not 
how  many  years  and  travel  numbers  of  places.  But  where  doth 
Euripides  ?  Even  with  the  finding  of  the  body,  leaving  the  rest  to 
be  told  by  the  spirit  of  Polydorus.  This  need  no  further  to  be 
enlarged,  the  dullest  wit  may  conceive  it. 

But  besides  these  gross  absurdities,  how  all  their  Plays  be 
neither  right  Tragedies,  nor  right  Comedies :  mingling  Kings  and 
Clowns,  not  because  the  matter  so  carrieth  it :  but  thrust  in  Clowns 
by  head  and  shoulders,  to  play  a  part  in  majestical  matters,  with 
neither  decency  nor  discretion.  So  as  neither  the  admiration  and 
commiseration,  nor  the  right  sportful  ness,  is  by  their  mongrel 
Tragicomedy  obtained.  I  know  Apuleius  did  somewhat  so,  but 
that  is  a  thing  recounted  with  space  of  time,  not  represented  in  one 
moment :  and  I  know,  the  Ancients  have  one  or  two  examples  of 
Tragicomedies,  as  Plautus  hath  Amphitryo.  But  if  we  mark  them 
well,  we  shall  find  that  they  never,  or  very  daintily,  match 


SIDNEY  99 

Hornpipes  and  Funerals.  So  falleth  it  out,  that,  having  indeed  no 
right  Comedy,  in  that  comical  part  of  our  Tragedy  we  have 
nothing  but  scurrility,  unworthy  of  any  chaste  ears :  or  some 
extreme  shew  of  doltishness  indeed  fit  to  lift  up  a  loud  laughter 
and  nothing  else :  where  the  whole  tract  of  a  Comedy  should  be 
full  of  delight,  as  the  Tragedy  should  be  still  maintained  in  a  well 
raised  admiration. 

But  our  Comedians  think  there  is  no  delight  without  laughter : 
which  is  very  wrong,  for  though  laughter  may  come  with  delight, 
yet  cometh  it  not  of  delight,  as  though  delight  should  be  the  cause 
of  laughter.  But  well  may  one  thing  breed  both  together.  Nay, 
rather  in  themselves  they  have  as  it  were  a  kind  of  contrariety  :  for 
delight  we  scarcely  do,  but  in  things  that  have  a  conveniency  to 
ourselves  or  to  the  general  nature  :  laughter  almost  ever  cometh  of 
things  most  disproportioned  to  ourselves  and  nature.  Delight  hath 
a  joy  in  it,  either  permanent  or  present.  Laughter  hath  only  a 
scornful  tickling.  For  example,  we  are  ravished  with  delight  to 
see  a  fair  woman,  and  yet  are  far  from  being  moved  to  laughter. 
We  laugh  at  deformed  creatures,  wherein  certainly  we  cannot 
delight.  We  delight  in  good  chances,  we  laugh  at  mischances ;  we 
delight  to  hear  the  happiness  of  our  friends  or  Country,  at  which 
he  were  worthy  to  be  laughed  at,  that  would  laugh ;  we  shall  con- 
trarily  laugh  sometimes,  to  find  a  matter  quite  mistaken  and  go 
down  the  hill  against  the  bias,  in  the  mouth  of  some  such  men,  as 
for  the  respect  of  them,  one  shall  be  heartily  sorry,  yet  he  cannot 
choose  but  laugh;  and  so  is  rather  pained,  than  delighted  with 
laughter.  Yet  deny  I  not,  but  that  they  may  go  well  together; 
for  as  in  Alexander's  picture  well  set  out,  we  delight  without  laugh- 
ter, and  in  twenty  mad  Antics  we  laugh  without  delight :  so  in 
Hercules,  painted  with  his  great  beard  and  furious  countenance,  in 
woman's  attire,  spinning  at  Omphale's  commandment,  it  breedeth 
both  delight  and  laughter.  For  the  representing  of  so  strange  a 
power  in  love  procureth  delight :  and  the  scornfulness  of  the  action 
stirreth  laughter. 

But  I  speak  to  this  purpose,  that  all  the  end  of  the  comical  part 
be  not  upon  such  scornful  matters,  as  stirreth  laughter  only :  but, 
mixt  with  it,  that  delightful  teaching  which  is  the  end  of  Poesy. 


100  EARLIER  ELIZABETHAN  CRITICS 

And  the  great  fault  even  in  that  point  of  laughter,  and  forbidden 
plainly  by  Aristotle,  is,  that  they  stir  laughter  in  sinful  things ; 
which  are  rather  execrable  than  ridiculous :  or  in  miserable,  which 
are  rather  to  be  pitied  than  scorned.  For  what  is  it  to  make  folks 
gape  at  a  wretched  Beggar,  or  a  beggarly  Clown ;  or,  against  law  of 
hospitality,  to  jest  at  strangers,  because  they  speak  not  English  so 
well  as  we  do  ?  What  do  we  learn  ?  Sith  it  is  certain 

Ni  habet  infelix  paupertas  durius  in  se, 
Quam  quod  ridicules  homines  facit. 

But  rather  a  busy  loving  Courtier,  a  heartless  threatening  Thraso; 
a  self-wise-seeming  schoolmaster ;  an  awry-transformed  Traveller : 
these  if  we  saw  walk  in  stage  names,  which  we  play  naturally, 
therein  were  delightful  laughter,  and  teaching  delightfulness  :  as  in 
the  other,  the  Tragedies  of  Buchanan  do  justly  bring  forth  a  divine 
admiration.  But  I  have  lavished  out  too  many  words  of  this  play 
matter.  I  do  it  because,  as  they  are  excelling  parts  of  Poesy,  so  is 
there  none  so  much  used  in  England,  and  none  can  be  more  pitifully 
abused.  Which  like  an  unmannerly  Daughter,  shewing  a  bad  edu- 
cation, causeth  her  mother  Poesy's  honesty  to  be  called  in  question. 


D.    PUTTENHAM  (?)  (after   1584,  licensed   1588) 
A   SURVEY   OF   ENGLISH   POETRY1 

It  appeareth  by  sundry  records  of  books  both  printed  and  written, 
that  many  of  our  countrymen  have  painfully  travailed  in  this  part ; 
of  whose  works  some  appear  to  be  but  bare  translations,  other  some 
matters  of  their  own  invention  and  very  commendable,  whereof 
some  recital  shall  be  made  in  his  place,  to  the  intent  chiefly  that 
their  names  should  not  be  defrauded  of  such  honour  as  seemeth  due 
to  them  for  having,  by  their  thankful  studies,  so  much  beautified 

1  The  Art  of  English  Poesy,  which  appeared  in  1589,  is  anonymous,  but  is 
usually  attributed  to  George  Puttenham.  Whoever  wrote  it,  it  is  an  interesting 
and  (with  some  crotchets  and  deficiencies)  a  sensible  book,  being,  moreover,  much 
fuller  than  any  other  up  to  its  time.  This  passage  is  perhaps  (v.  inf.)  the  first 
attempt,  certainly  the  best  early  attempt,  to  survey  the  subject  historically, 
and  slips  may  therefore  be  easily  pardoned  in  it. 


TOTTENHAM  (?)  101 

our  English  tongue,  as  at  this  day  it  will  be  found  our  nation  is  in 
nothing  inferior  to  the  French  or  Italian  for  copy  of  language, 
subtlety  of  device,  good  method  and  proportion  in  any  form  of  poem, 
but  that  they  may  compare  with  the  most,  and  perchance  pass  a 
great  many  of  them.  And  I  will  not  reach  above  the  time  of  King 
Edward  III,  and  Richard  II,  for  any  that  wrote  in  English  metre ; 
because  before  their  times,  by  reason  of  the  late  Norman  Conquest, 
which  had  brought  into  this  realm  much  alteration  both  of  our 
language  and  laws,  and  therewithal  a  certain  martial  barbarousness 
whereby  the  study  of  all  good  learning  was  so  much  decayed,  as 
long  time  after  no  man  or  very  few  entended  [i.e.,  "understood"] 
how  to  write  in  any  laudable  science ;  so  as  beyond  that  time  there 
is  little  or  nothing  worth  commendation  to  be  found  written  in 
this  art. 

And  those  of  the  first  age  were  Chaucer  and  Gower,  both  of  them 
as  I  suppose,  knights.  After  whom  followed  John  Lydgate  the 
Monk  of  Bury;  and  that  nameless  who  wrote  the  Satire  called 
Piers  Ploivman.  Next  him  followed  Harding  the  chronicler  :  then 
in  King  Henry  VIII's  time  Skelton  (I  wot  not  for  what  great 
worthiness)  surnamed  the  Poet  Laureate.  In  the  latter  part  of  the 
same  king's  reign  sprung  up  a  new  company  of  courtly  makers,  of 
whom  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt  the  elder,  and  Henr-y,  Earl  of  Surrey, 
were  the  two  chieftains.  Who  having  travelled  into  Italy,  and  there 
tasted  the  sweet  and  stately  measures  and  style  of  the  Italian  poesy, 
as  novices  newly  crept  out  of  the  school  of  Dante,  Ariosto,  and 
Petrarch,  they  greatly  polished  our  rude  and  homely  manner  of 
vulgar  Poesy  from  that  it  had  been  before,  and  for  that  case  may 
justly  be  said  the  first  reformers  of  our  English  metre  and  style. 
In  the  same  time,  or  not  long  after,  was  the  Lord  Nicholas  Vaux,  a 
man  of  much  facility  in  vulgar  makings.  Afterward  in  King 
Edward  VI's  time  came  to  be  in  reputation,  for  the  same  faculty, 
Thomas  Sternhold,  who  first  translated  into  English  certain  psalms 
of  David,  and  John  Heywood  the  epigrammatist,  who,  for  the  mirth 
and  quickness  of  his  conceits,  more  than  for  good  learning  that  was 
in  him,  came  to  be  well  benefited  by  the  king.  But  the  principal 
man  in  this  profession  at  the  same  time  was  Master  Edward  Ferris, 
a  man  of  no  less  mirth  and  felicity  that  way,  but  of  much  more 


102  EARLIER  ELIZABETHAN   CRITICS 

skill  and  magnificence  in  his  metre,  and  therefore  wrote  for  the 
most  part  to  the  stage  in  Tragedy  and  sometimes  in  Comedy  or 
I  uterlude,  wherein  he  gave  the  king  so  much  good  recreation,  as  he 
had  thereby  many  good  rewards.  In  Queen  Mary's  time  nourished 
above  any  other  Dr.  Phaer,  one  that  was  well  learned  and  excellently 
well  translated  into  English  verse  heroical  certain  books  of  Virgil's 
JEneidos.  Since  him  followed  Master  Arthur  Golding,  who  with 
not  less  commendation,  turned  into  English  metre  the  Metamor- 
phosis of  Ovid ;  and  that  other  Doctor  who  made  the  supplement  to 
those  books  of  Virgil's  JEneidos  which  Master  Phaer  left  undone. 
And  in  Her  Majesty's  time  that  now  is  are  sprung  up  another  crew 
of  courtly  makers,  Noblemen  and  gentlemen  of  Her  Majesty's  own 
servants,  who  have  written  excellently  well :  as  it  would  appear 
if  their  doings  could  be  found  out  and  made  public  with  the  rest. 
Of  which  number  is  first  that  noble  gentleman  Edward,  Earl  of 
Oxford,  Thomas,  Lord  of  Buckhurst,  when  he  was  young,  Henry, 
Lord  Paget,  Sir  Philip  Sydney,  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  Master  Edward 
Dyer,  Master  Fulk  Greville,  Gascoigne  ["  Gascon  "],  Breton  ["  Brit- 
ton"],  Turberville,  and  a  great  many  other  learned  gentlemen 
whose  names  I  do  not  omit  for  envy,  but  to  avoid  tediousness,  and 
who  have  deserved  no  little  commendation. 

But  of  them  all  particularly  this  is  mine  opinion,  that  Chaucer, 
with  Gower,  Lydgate,  and  Harding  for  their  antiquity,  ought  to 
have  the  first  place :  and  Chaucer  as  the  most  renowned  of  them 
all  for  the  much  learning  that  appeareth  to  be  in  him  above  any  of 
the  rest.  And  though  many  of  his  books  be  but  bare  translations 
out  of  the  Latin  and  French,  yet  are  they  well  handled,  as  his  books 
of  Troilus  and  Cressid,  and  the  Romaunt  of  the  Rose  whereof  he 
translated  but  one  half  (the  device  was  John  of  Meun's  a  French 
poet).  The  Canterbury  Tales  were  Chaucer's  own  invention,  I  sup- 
pose, and  [wjhere  he  sheweth  more  the  natural  of  his  pleasant  wit, 
than  in  any  other  of  his  works ;  his  similitudes,  or  comparisons,  and 
all  other  descriptions  are  such  as  cannot  be  amended.  His  metre 
heroical  of  Troilus  and  Cressid  is  very  grave  and  stately,  keeping 
the  staff  of  seven,  and  the  verse  of  ten ;  his  other  verses  of  the 
Canterbury  Tales  be  but  riding  rhyme,  nevertheless  very  well 
becoming  the  matter  of  that  pleasant  pilgrimage  in  which  every 


PUTTENHAM  (?)  103 

man's  part  is  played  with  much  decency.  Gower,  saving  for  his 
good  and  grave  moralities,  had  nothing  in  him  highly  to  be  com- 
mended, for  his  verse  was  homely  and  without  good  measure,  his 
words  strained  rnuchdeal  out  of  the  French  writers,  his  rhyme 
wrested,  and  his  inventions  small  subtlety.  The  'applications  of 
his  moralities  are  the  best  in  him ;  and  yet  those  many  times 
very  grossly  bestowed,  neither  doth  the  substance  of  his  works  suf- 
ficiently answer  the  subtlety  of  his  titles.  Lydgate,  a  translator 
only  and  no  deviser  of  that  which  he  wrote,  but  one  that  wrote  in 
good  verse.  Harding,  a  poet  epic  or  historical,  handled  himself  well 
according  to  the  time  and  manner  of  his  subject.  He  that  wrote 
the  satire  of  Piers  Plowman,  seemed  to  have  been  a  malcontent  of 
that  time,  and  therefore  bent  himself  wholly  to  tax  the  disorders 
of  that  age,  and  specially  the  pride  of  the  Roman  clergy,  of  whose 
fall  he  seemeth  to  be  a  very  true  prophet.  His  verse  is  but  loose 
metre,  and  his  terms  hard  and  obscure,  so  as  in  them  is  little  pleas- 
ure to  be  taken.  Skelton,  a  sharp  satirist,  but  with  more  railing 
and  scoffery  than  became  a  Poet  Laureate ;  such  among  the  Greeks 
were  called  Pantomimi,  with  us  buffoons,  altogether  applying  their 
wits  to  scurrilities,  and  other  ridiculous  matters.  Henry,  Earl  of 
Surrey,  and  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt,  between  whom  I  find  very  little 
difference,  I  repute  them  as  before,  for  the  two  chief  lanterns  of 
light  to  all  others,  that  have  since  employed  their  pens  upon 
English  Poesy.  Their  conceits  were  lofty,  their  styles  stately,  their 
conveyance  cleanly,  their  terms  proper,  their  metre  sweet  and  well 
proportioned,  in  all  imitating  very  naturally  and  studiously  their 
master,  Francis  Petrarcha.  The  Lord  Vaux  his  commendation  lieth 
chiefly  in  the  facility  of  his  metre,  and  the  aptness  of  his  descrip- 
tions such  as  he  taketh  upon  him  to  make,  namely  in  sundry  of 
his  songs,  wherein  he  sheweth  the  counterfeit  action  very  lively  and 
pleasantly. 

Of  the  later  sort  I  think  thus  —  That  for  Tragedy,  the  Lord  of 
Buckhurst  and  Master  Edward  Ferris,  for  such  doings  as  I  have 
seen  of  theirs  do  deserve  the  highest  price ;  the  Earl  of  Oxford  and 
Master  Edwards  of  Her  Majesty's  Chapel  for  Comedy  and  Interlude. 
For  eclogue  and  pastoral  poesy,  Sir  Philip  Sydney  and  Master 
Chaloner,  and  that  other  gentleman  who  wrote  the  late  Shepherd's 


104  EARLIER   ELIZABETHAN  CRITICS 

Calendar.  For  ditty  and  amorous  ode  I  find  Sir  Walter  Raleigh's 
vein  most  lofty,  insolent,  and  passionate  ;  Master  Edward  Dyer  for 
elegy  most  sweet,  solemn,  and  of  a  high  conceit ;  Gascoigne  for  a 
good  metre  and  for  a  plentiful  vein;  Phaer  and  Golding  for  a 
learned  and  well  corrected  verse,  specially  in  translation  clear  and 
very  faithfully  answering  their  authors'  intent.  Others  have  also 
written  with  much  facility,  but  more  commendably  perchance  if 
they  had  not  written  so  much  nor  so  popularly.  But  last  in  recital 
and  first  in  degree  is  the  Queen  our  Sovereign  Lady,  whose  learned, 
delicate,  noble  Muse  easily  surmounteth  all  the  rest  that  have 
written  before  her  time  or  since,  for  sense,  sweetness,  and  subtlety, 
be  it  in  Ode,  Elegy,  Epigram,  or  any  other  kind  of  poem  heroic  or 
lyric,  wherein  it  shall  please  her  Majesty  to  employ  her  pen,  even 
by  as  much  odds  as  her  own  excellent  estate  and  degree  exceedeth 
all  the  rest  of  her  most  humble  vassals. 

Art  of  English  Poesy,  Bk.  I  ch.  xxxi. 

E.   WEBBE   (1586) 
SPENSER » 

Wherefore  I  doubt  not  equally  to  adjoin  the  authority  of  our  late 
famous  English  poet,  who  wrote  the  Shepherd's  Calendar,  where, 
lamenting  the  decay  of  poetry,  at  these  days,  he  saith  most  sweetly 
to  the  same  — 

Then  make  thee  wings  of  thine  aspiring  wit, 

And  whence  thou  earnest  fly  back  to  Heaven  apace,  etc. 

Whose  fine  poetical  wit,  and  most  exquisite  learning,  as  he  showed 
abundantly  in  that  piece  of  work,  in  my  judgment  inferior  neither  to 
the  works  of  Theocritus  in  Greek,  or  Virgil  in  Latin,  whom  he 
narrowly  imitateth;  so  I  nothing  doubt,  but  if  his  other  works 
were  common  abroad,  which  are  I  think  in  the  close  custody  of 
certain  his  friends,  we  should  have  of  our  own  poets,  whom  we 
might  match  in  all  respects  with  the  best.  And  among  other  his 
works  whatsoever,  I  would  wish  to  have  the  sight  of  his  English 

1  These  are  only  specimens  of  Webbe's  enthusiasm  for  Spenser,  to  whom  he 
returns  again  and  again. 


VVEBBE  105 

Poet,  which  his  friend  "  E.  K."  did  once  promise  to  publish,  which 
whether  he  performed  or  not,  I  know  not.  If  he  did,  my  hap  hath 
not  been  so  good  as  yet  to  see  it.1  Discourse  p.  23,  ed.  Arber. 

This  place  have  I  purposely  reserved  for  one,  who  if  not  only, 
yet  in  my  judgment  principally,  deserveth  the  title  of  the  rightest 
English  Poet  that  ever  I  read  ;  that  is,  the  author  of  the  Shepherd's 
Calendar,  intitLsd  to  the  worthy  gentleman  Master  Philip  Sydney. 
Whether  it  was  Master  Sp.  or  what  rare  scholar  in  Pembroke 
Hall  soever,  because  himself  and  his  friends,  for  what  respect  I 
know  not,  would  not  reveal  it,  I  force  not  greatly  to  set  down. 
Sorry  I  am  that  I  cannot  find  none  other  with  whom  I  might 
couple  him  in  this  catalogue,  in  his  rare  gift  of  Poetry ;  although 
one  there  is,  though  now  long  since  seriously  occupied  in  graver 
studies  (Master  Gabriel  Harvey).  Yet  as  he  was  once  his  most 
special  friend  and  fellow-poet,  so  because  he  hath  taken  such  pains, 
not  only  in  his  Latin  poetry,  for  which  he  enjoyed  great  commenda- 
tions of  the  best  both  in  judgment  and  dignity  in  this  realm,  but 
also  to  reform  our  English  verse,  and  beautify  the  same  with  brave 
devices,  of  which  I  think  the  chief  lie  hid  in  hateful  obscurity ; 
therefore  will  I  adventure  to  set  them  together  as  two  of  the  rarest 
wits  and  learnedest  masters  of  Poetry  in  England.  Whose  worthy 
and  notable  skill  in  this  faculty,  I  would  wish,  if  their  high  digni- 
ties and  serious  businesses  would  permit,  they  would  still  grant  to  be 
a  furtherance  to  that  reformed  kind  of  poetry,  which  Master  Harvey 
did  once  begin  to  ratify.  And  surely  in  mine  opinion,  if  he  had 
chosen  some  graver  matter  and  handled  with  but  half  the  skill 
which  I  know  he  could  have  done,  and  not  poured  it  forth  at  a 
venture  as  a  thing  between  jest  and  earnest,  it  had  taken  greater 
effect  than  it  did.  For  the  other  gentleman,  if  it  would  please  him 
and  his  friends  to  let  those  excellent  poems  whereof  I  know  he 
hath  plenty,  come  abroad,  as  his  Dreams,  his  Legends,  his  Court  of 
Cupid,  his  English  Poet,  with  other,  he  should  not  only  stay  the 
rude  pens  of  myself  and  others,  but  also  satisfy  the  thirsty  desires 
of  many  which  desire  nothing  more  than  to  see  more  of  his  rare 
inventions.  /^.  pp.  35,  36. 

1  Neither,  alas  !  hath  the  hap  of  posterity  been  better. 


106  EARLIER  ELIZABETHAN   CRITICS 

AGAINST  RHYME1 

I  know  no  memorable  work  written  by  any  Poet  in  our  English 
speech,  until  twenty  years  past  ;  where,  although  learning  was  not 
generally  decayed  at  any  time,  .  .  .  yet  surely  that  Poetry  was  in 
small  price  among  them  it  is  very  manifest  and  no  great  marvel. 
For  even  that  light  of  Greek  and  Latin  poets  which  they  had,  they 
much  contemned  as  appeareth  by  their  rude  versifying,  which  of 
long  time  was  used  (a  barbarous  use  it  was  !)  wherein  they  con- 
verted the  natural  property  of  the  sweet  Latin  verse,  to  be  a  -bald 
kind  of  rhyming,  thinking  nothing  to  be  learnedly  written  in  verse, 
which  fell  not  out  in  rhyme  —  that  is,  in  words  whereof  the  middle 
word  of  each  verse  should  sound  alike  with  the  last,  or,  of  two 
verses,  the  end  of  both  should  fall  in  the  like  letters  as  this  : 

(Examples  of  Leonine  and  other  rhyming  in  Latin  given) 

This  brutish  poetry,  though  it  had  not  the  beginning  in  this 
country,  yet  so  hath  it  been  affected  here,  that  the  affection  thereof 
would  never  —  nor,  I  think,  ever  will  —  be  rooted  up  again  :  —  I 
mean  this  tinkerly  verse  which  we  call  rhyme.  Master  Ascham 
saith,  that  it  first  began  to  be  followed  and  maintained  among  the 
Huns  and  Gothians,  and  other  barbarous  nations,  who,  with  the 
decay  of  all  good  learning,  brought  it  into  Italy.  From  thence  it 
came  into  France,  and  so  to  Germany,  at  last  conveyed  into  Eng- 
land by  men,  indeed  of  great  wisdom  and  learning,  but  not  consider- 
ate nor  circumspect  in  that  behalf. 


1  Webbe  follows  this  outburst  (to  be  accounted  for  in  him  and  others  by  their 
fancy  for  the  doggerel  "classical  metres"  which  certain  Cambridge  scholars, 
Watson,  Drant,  and  Ascham  himself,  had  let  loose  on  English)  with  a  not  very 
well-informed  survey  (which  appeared  before  Puttenham's),  placing  (as  indeed 
Puttenham  had  done)  Piers  Plowman  after  Lydgate,  complimenting  Lydgate 
himself  on  the  superiority  of  his  style  to  his  matter,  etc. 


XVI 

BEN  JONSON 

(The  general  critical  position  of  Jonson  rests  not  so  much  on  the  Italians 
—  though  partly  on  them  — as  on  the  classical  originals  of  Italian  teach- 
ing, especially  the  Latins  of  the  Silver  Age.  He  is  thus  distinctly 
"  neo-classic  "  in  general  tone,  but  his  intensely  English  idiosyncrasy  causes 
important  variations.  That  he  is  the  first  great  English  critic  is  scarcely 
matter  of  opinion.  The  best  edition  of  his  Discoveries  (from  which  the 
following  passages  are  taken)  is  the  separate  one  of  Professor  Schelling  of 
Philadelphia :  but  the  Latin  headings  which  are  given  here  will  identify 
the  passages  (in  the  absence  of  a  very  desirable  numbering)  in  any  edition.) 

ELOQUENTIA 

Eloquentia.  —  Eloquence  is  a  great  and  diverse  thing :  nor  did 
she  yet  ever  favour  any  man  so  much  as  to  become  wholly  his.  He 
is  happy  that  can  arrive  to  any  degree  of  her  grace.  Yet  there  are 
who  prove  themselves  masters  of  her,  and  absolute  lords ;  but  I 
believe  they  may  mistake  their  evidence  :  for  it  is  one  thing  to  be 
eloquent  in  the  schools,  or  in  the  hall ;  another  at  the  bar,  or  in 
the  pulpit.  There  is  a  difference  between  mooting  and  pleading ; 
between  fencing  and  fighting.  To  make  arguments  in  my  study, 
and  confute  them,  is  easy ;  where  I  answer  myself,  not  an  adversary. 
So  I  can  see  whole  volumes  dispatched  by  the  umbratical  doctors  1 
on  all  sides.  But  draw  these  forth  into  the  just  lists ;  let  them 
appear  sub  dio,  and  they  are  changed  with  the  place,  like  bodies  bred 
in  the  shade ;  they  cannot  suffer  the  sun  or  a  shower,  nor  bear  the 
open  air ;  they  scarce  can  find  themselves,  that  they  were  wont  to 
domineer  so  among  their  auditors  :  but  indeed  I  would  no  more 
choose  a  rhetorician  for  reigning  in  a  school,  than  I  would  a  pilot 
for  rowing  in  a  pond. 

1  The  "private  teacher"  of  Petronius,  v.  sup.,  p.  60. 
107 


108  BEN  JONSON 

CENSURA   DE   POETIS 

(cum  seq.) 

Censura  de  poetis. — Nothing  in  our  age,  I  have  observed,  is 
more  preposterous  than  the  running  judgments  upon  poetry  and 
poets ;  when  we  shall  hear  those  things  commended  and  cried  up 
for  the  best  writings  which  a  man  would  scarce  vouchsafe  to  wrap 
any  wholesome  drug  in :  he  would  never  light  his  tobacco  with 
them.  And  those  men  almost  named  for  miracles,  who  yet  are  so 
vile  that  if  a  man  should  go  about  to  examine  and  correct  them,  he 
must  make  all  they  have  done  but  one  blot.  Their  good  is  so 
entangled  with  their  bad  as  forcibly  one  must  draw  on  the  other's 
death  with  it.  A  sponge  dipped  in  ink  will  do  all : 


Et  paulo  post, 


Comitetur  Punica  librum 
Spongia. 


Non  possunt .  .  .  multse, 

una  litura  potest. 


Yet  their  vices  have  not  hurt  them ;  nay,  a  great  many  they  have 
profited,  for  they  have  been  loved  for  nothing  else.  And  this  false 
opinion  grows  strong  against  the  best  men,  if  once  it  take  root 
with  the  ignorant.  Cestius,  in  his  time,  was  preferred  to  Cicero,  so 
far  as  the  ignorant  durst.  They  learned  him  without  book,  and 
had  him  often  in  their  mouths ;  but  a  man  cannot  imagine  that 
thing  so  foolish  or  rude  but  will  find  and  enjoy  an  admirer;  at 
least  a  reader  or  spectator.  The  puppets  are  seen  now  in  despite 
of  the  players;  Heath's  epigrams  and  the  Sculler's  poems  have 
their  applause.  There  are  never  wanting  that  dare  prefer  the  worst 
preachers,  the  worst  pleaders,  the  worst  poets ;  not  that  the  better 
have  left  to  write  or  speak  better,  but  that  they  that  hear  them 
judge  worse  ;  Non  illi  pejus  dicunt,  sed  hi  corrupting  j-itdicant.  Nay, 
if  it  were  put  to  the  question  of  the  water-rimer's  works,  against 
Spenser's,  I  doubt  not  but  they  would  find  more  suffrages  ;  because 
the  most  favour  common  vices,  out  of  a  prerogative  the  vulgar  have 
to  lose  their  judgments  and  like  that  which  is  naught. 


DE  SHAKESPEARE  NOSTRAT.  109 

Poetry,  in  this  latter  age,  hath  proved  but  a  mean  mistress  to 
such  as  have  wholly  addicted  themselves  to  her,  or  given  their 
names  up  to  her  family.  They  who  have  but  saluted  her  on  the  by, 
and  now  and  then  tendered  their  visits,  she  hath  done  much  for, 
and  advanced  in  the  way  of  their  own  professions  —  both  the  law 
and  the  gospel  —  beyond  all  they  could  have  hoped  or  done  for 
themselves  without  her  favour.  Wherein  she  doth  emulate  the 
judicious  but  preposterous  bounty  of  the  time's  grandees,  who 
accumulate  all  they  can  upon  the  parasite  or  fresh-man  in  their 
friendship ;  but  think  an  old  client  or  honest  servant  bound  by  his 
place  to  write  and  starve. 

Indeed,  the  multitude  commend  writers  as  they  do  fencers  or 
wrestlers,  who,  if  they  come  in  robustiously  and  put  for  it  with  a 
deal  of  violence,  are  received  for  the  braver  fellows ;  when  many 
times  their  own  rudeness  is  a  cause  of  their  disgrace,  and  a  slight 
touch  of  their  adversary  gives  all  that  boisterous  force  the  foil. 
But  in  these  things  the  unskilful  are  naturally  deceived,  and  judg- 
ing wholly  by  the  bulk,  think  rude  things  greater  than  polished, 
and  scattered  more  numerous  than  composed.  Nor  think  this  only 
to  be  true  in  the  sordid  multitude,  but  the  neater  sort  of  our  gal- 
lants ;  for  all  are  the  multitude,  only  they  differ  in  clothes,  not  in 
judgment  or  understanding. 


DE   SHAKESPEARE    NOSTRAT. 

De  Shakespeare  nostrat.  —  I  remember  the  players  have  often 
mentioned  it  as  an  honour  to  Shakespeare,  that  in  his  writing, 
whatsoever  he  penned,  he  never  blotted  out  a  line.  My  answer 
hath  been,  "  Would  he  had  blotted  a  thousand,"  which  they  thought 
a  malevolent  speech.  I  had  not  told  posterity  this  but  for  their 
ignorance,  who  chose  that  circumstance  to  commend  their  friend 
by  wherein  he  most  faulted ;  and  to  justify  mine  own  candour,  for 
I  loved  the  man,  and  do  honour  his  memory,  on  this  side  idolatry, 
as  much  as  any.  He  was,  indeed,  honest,  and  of  an  open  and  free 
nature;  had  an  excellent  fancy,  brave  notions,  and  gentle  express- 
ions, wherein  he  flowed  with  that  facility  that  sometime  it  was 


110  BEN  JONSON 

necessary  he  should  be  stopped.  "  Sufflaminandus  erat,"  as  Augustus 
said  of  Haterius.  His  wit  was  in  his  own  power;  would  the 
rule  of  it  had  been  so  too.  Many  times  he  fell  into  those  things, 
could  not  escape  laughter,  as  when  he  said  in  the  person  of  Caesar, 
one  speaking  to  him  :  "  Caesar,  thou  dost  me  wrong."  He  replied  : 
"  Caesar  did  never  wrong  but  with  just  cause " ;  and  such  like, 
which  were  ridiculous.  But  he  redeemed  his  vices  with  his  virtues. 
There  was  ever  more  in  him  to  be  praised  than  to  be  pardoned. 


INGENIORUM  DISCRIMINA 

Ingeniorum  discrimina.  —  It  cannot  but  come  to  pass  that  these 
men  who  commonly  seek  to  do  more  than  enough  may  sometimes 
happen  on.-  something  that  is  good  and  great ;  but  very  seldom  : 
and  when  it  comes  it  doth  not  recompense  the  rest  of  their  ill. 
For  their  jests,  and  their  sentences,  which  they  only  and  ambi- 
tiously seek  for,  stick  out,  and  are  more  eminent,  because  all  is 
sordid  and  vile  about  them  ;  as  lights  are  more  discerned  in  a  thick 
darkness  than  a  faint  shadow.  Now,  because  they  speak  all  they 
can,  however  unfitly,  they  are  thought  to  have  the  greater  copy ; 
where  the  learned  use  ever  election  and  a  mean,  they  look  back  to 
what  they  intended  at  first,  and  make  all  an  even  and  proportioned 
body.  The  true  artificer  will  not  run  away  from  Nature  as  he 
were  afraid  of  her,  or  depart  from  life  and  the  likeness  of  truth, 
but  speak  to  the  capacity  of  his  hearers.  And  though  his  language 
differ  from  the  vulgar  somewhat,  it  shall  not  fly  from  all  humanity, 
with  the  Tamerlanes  and  Tamer-chams  of  the  late  age,  which  had 
nothing  in  them  but  the  scenical  strutting  and  furious  vociferation 
to  warrant  them  to  the  ignorant  gapers.  He  knows  it  is  his  only 
art  so  to  carry  it,  as  none  but  artificers  perceive  it.  In  the  mean 
time,  perhaps,  he  is  called  barren,  dull,  lean,  a  poor  writer,  or  by 
what  contumelious  word  can  come  in  their  cheeks,  by  these  men 
who,  without  labour,  judgment,  knowledge,  or  almost  sense,  are 
received  or  preferred  before  him.  He  gratulates  them  and  their 
fortune.  An  other  age,  or  juster  men,  will  acknowledge  the  virtues 


DOMINUS  VERULAMIUS  111 

of  his  studies,  his  wisdom  in  dividing,  his  subtlety  in  arguing,  with 
what  strength  he  doth  inspire  his  readers,  with  what  sweetness 
he  strokes  them;  in  inveighing,  what  sharpness;  in  jest,  what 
urbanity  he  uses ;  how  he  doth  reign  in  men's  affections ;  how  invade 
and  break  in  upon  them,  and  make  their  minds  like  the  thing  he 
writes.  Then  in  his  elocution  to  behold  what  word  is  proper, 
which  hath  ornament,  which  height,  what  is  beautifully  translated, 
where  figures  are  fit,  which  gentle,  which  strong,  to  show  the  com- 
position manly ;  and  how  he  hath  avoided  faint,  obscure,  obscene, 
sordid,  humble,  improper,  or  effeminate  phrase ;  which  is  not  only 
praised  of  the  most,  but  commended,  which  is  worse,  especially 
for  that  it  is  naught.1 

DOMINUS  VERULAMIUS.     SCRIPTORUM  CATALOGUS 

(cum  seq.) 

Stili  eminentia.  —  It  is  no  wonder  men's  eminence  appears  but 
in  their  own  way.  Virgil's  felicity  left  him  in  prose,  as  Tully's  for- 
sook him  in  verse.  Sallust's  orations  are  read  in  the  honour  of 
story,  yet  the  most  eloquent  Plato's  speech,  which  he  made  for 
Socrates,  is  neither  worthy  of  the  patron  nor  the  person  defended. 
Nay,  in  the  same  kind  of  oratory,  and  where  the  matter  is  one, 
you  shall  have  him  that  reasons  strongly,  open  negligently ;  another 
that  prepares  well,  not  fit  so  well.  And  this  happens  not  only  to 
brains,  but  to  bodies.  One  can  wrestle  well,  another  run  well,  a 
third  leap  or  throw  the  bar,  a  fourth  lift  or  stop  a  cart  going :  each 
hath  his  way  of  strength.  So  in  other  creatures  —  some  dogs  are 
for  the  deer,  some  for  the  wild  boar,  some  are  fox-hounds,  some 
otter-hounds.  Nor  are  all  horses  for  the  coach  or  saddle,  some  are 
for  the  cart  and  panniers. 

De  claris  oratoribus.  —  I  have  known  many  excellent  men  that 
would  speak  suddenly  to  the  admiration  of  their  hearers,  who  upon 
study  and  premeditation  have  been  forsaken  by  their  own  wits, 
and  no  way  answered  their  fame  ;  their  eloquence  was  greater  than 

1  For  the  original  of  much  of  this  last  passage,  see  Quintilian,  sup.,  p.  02. 
Observe  how  Ben  silently  transfers  the  whole  from  the  orator  to  the  writer. 


112  BEN  JON  SON 

their  reading,  and  the  things  they  uttered  better  than  those  they 
knew ;  their  fortune  deserved  better  of  them  than  their  care.  For 
men  of  present  spirits,  and  of  greater  wits  than  study,  do  please 
more  in  the  things  they  invent  than  in  those  they  bring.  And  1 
have  heard  some  of  them  compelled  to  speak,  out  of  necessity,  that 
have  so  infinitely  exceeded  themselves,  as  it  was  better  both  for 
them  and  their  auditory  that  they  were  so  surprised,  not  prepared. 
Nor  was  it  safe  then  to  cross  them  for  their  adversary,  their  anger 
made  them  more  eloquent.  Yet  these  men  I  could  not  but  love  and 
admire,  that  they  returned  to  their  studies.  They  left  not  diligence, 
as  many  do,  when  their  rashness  prospered ;  for  diligence  is  a  great 
aid,  even  to  an  indifferent  wit ;  when  we  are  not  contented  with  the 
examples  of  our  own  age,  but  would  know  the  face  of  the  former. 
Indeed,  the  more  we  confer  with  the  more  we  profit  by,  if  the 
persons  be  chosen. 

Dominus  Verulamius.  —  One,  though  he  be  excellent  and  the 
chief,  is  not  to  be  imitated  alone ;  for  never  no  imitator  ever  grew 
up  to  his  author ;  likeness  is  always  on  this  side  truth.  Yet  there 
happened  in  my  time  one  noble  speaker  who  was  full  of  gravity  in 
his  speaking;  his  language,  where  he  could  spare  or  pass  by  a  jest, 
was  nobly  censorious.  No  man  ever-  spake  more  neatly,  more 
pressly,  more  weightily,  or  suffered  less  emptiness,  less  idleness,  in 
what  he  uttered.  No  member  of  his  speech  but  consisted  of  his 
own  graces.  His  hearers  could  not  cough,  or  look  aside  from  him, 
without  loss.  He  commanded  where  he  spoke,  and  had  his  judges 
angry  and  pleased  at  his  devotion.  No  man  had  their  affections 
more  in  his  power.  The  fear  of  every  man  that  heard  him  was 
lest  he  should  make  an  end. 

Scriptorum  cataloyus.  —  Cicero  is  said  to  be  the  only  wit  that  the 
people  of  Rome  had  equalled  to  their  empire,  Ingenium  par 
impeino.  We  have  had  many,  and  in  their  several  ages  (to  take  in 
but  the  former  seculum)  Sir  Thomas  More,  the  elder  Wyatt,  Henry 
Earl  of  Surrey,  Chaloner,  Smith,  Eliot,  B[ishop]  Gardiner,  were  for 
their  times  admirable  ;  and  the  more,  because  they  began  eloquence 
with  us.  Sir  Nico[las]  Bacon  was  singular,  and  almost  alone,  in 
the  beginning  of  Queen  Elizabeth's  times.  Sir  Philip  Sidney  and 
Mr.  Hooker  (in  different  matter)  grew  great  masters  of  wit  and 


POESIS  ET   PICTURA  113 

language,  and  in  whom  all  vigour  of  invention  and  strength  of  judg- 
ment met.  The  Earl  of  Essex,  noble  and  high ;  and  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh,  not  to  be  contemned,  either  for  judgment  or  style ;  Sir 
Henry  Savile,  grave,  and  truly  lettered ;  Sir  Edwin  Sandys,  excell- 
ent in  both ;  Lo[rdJ  Egerton,  the  Chancellor,  a  grave  and  great 
orator,  and  best  when  he  was  provoked ;  but  his  learned  and  able, 
though  unfortunate,  successor  is  he  who  hath  filled  up  all  num- 
bers, and  performed  that  in  our  tongue  which  may  be  compared  or 
preferred  either  to  insolent  Greece  or  haughty  Rome.  In  short, 
within  his  view,  and  about  his  times,  were  all  the  wits  born 
that  could  honour  a  language  or  help  study.  Now  things  daily 
fall,  wits  grow  downward,  and  eloquence  grows  backward ;  so 
that  he  may  be  named  and  stand  as  the  mark  and  d/c^i)  of  our 
language. 

De  augmentis  scientiarum.  —  I  have  ever  observed  it  to  have 
been  the  office  of  a  wise  patriot,  among  the  greatest  affairs  of  the 
State,  to  take  care  of  the  commonwealth  of  learning.  For  schools, 
they  are  the  seminaries  of  State ;  and  nothing  is  worthier  the  study 
of  a  statesman  than  that  part  of  the  republic  which  we  call  the 
advancement  of  letters.  Witness  the  care  of  Julius  Caesar,  who, 
in  the  heat  of  the  civil  war,  writ  his  books  of  Analogy,  and  dedicated 
them  to  Tully.  This  made  the  late  Lord  S[aint]  Alban  entitle  his 
work  Novum  Organum;  which,  though  by  the  most  of  superficial 
men,  who  cannot  get  beyond  the  title  of  nominals,  it  is  not  pene- 
trated nor  understood,  it  really  openeth  all  defects  of  learning 
whatsoever,  and  is  a  book  • 

Qui  longum  noto  scriptori  porriget  sevum. 

My  conceit  of  his  person  was  never  increased  toward  him  by  his 
place  or  honours.  But  I  have  and  do  reverenee  him  for  the  great- 
ness that  was  only  proper  to  himself,  in  that  he  seemed  to  me  ever, 
by  his  work,  one  of  the  greatest  men,  and  most  worthy  of  admir- 
ation, that  had  been  in  many  ages.  In  his  adversity  I  ever  prayed 
that  God  would  give  him  strength  ;  for  greatness  he  could  not  want. 
Neither  could  I  condole  in  a  word  or  syllable  for  him,  as  knowing 
no  accident  could  do  harm  to  virtue,  but  rather  help  to  make  it 
manifest. 


114  BEN  JONSON 

POESIS   ET   PICTURA 

Poesis  et  pictura.  —  Poetry  and  picture  are  arts  of  a  like  nature, 
and  both  are  busy  about  imitation.  It  was  excellently  said  of  Plu- 
tarch, poetry  was  a  speaking  picture,  and  picture  a  mute  poesy. 
For  they  both  invent,  feign,  and  devise  many  things,  and  accommod- 
ate all  they  invent  to  the  use  and  service  of  Nature.  Yet  of  the 
two  the  pen  is  more  noble  than  the  pencil ;  for  that  can  speak  to 
the  understanding,  the  other  but  to  the  sense.  They  both  behold 
pleasure  and  profit  as  their  common  object ;  but  should  abstain 
from  all  base  pleasures,  lest  they  should  err  from  their  end,  and, 
while  they  seek  to  better  men's  minds,  destroy  their  manners. 
They  both  are  born  artificers,  not  made.  Nature  is  more  powerful 
in  them  than  study. 


DE   STILO.     PRJ2CIPIENDI  MODI 

De  stilo,  et  optima  scribendi  genere. — For  a  man  to  write  well, 
there  are  required  three  necessaries  —  to  read  the  best  authors, 
observe  the  best  speakers,  and  much  exercise  of  his  own  style.  In 
style,  to  consider  what  ought  to  be  written,  and  after  what  manner, 
he  must  first  think  and  excogitate  his  matter,  then  choose  his 
words,  and  examine  the  weight  of  either.  Then  take  care,  in 
placing  and  ranking  both  matter  and  words,  that  the  composition 
be  comely  ;  and  to  do  this  with  diligence  and  often.  No  matter  how 
slow  the  style  be  at  first,  s»  it  be  laboured  and  accurate ;  seek  the 
best,  and  be  not  glad  of  the  forward  conceits,  or  first  words,  that 
offer  themselves  to  us ;  but  judge  of  what  we  invent,  and  order 
what  we  approve.  Repeat  often  what  we  have  formerly  written ; 
which  beside  that  it  helps  the  consequence,  and  makes  the  juncture 
better,  it  quickens  the  heat  of  imagination,  that  often  cools  in  the 
time  of  setting  down,  and  gives  it  new  strength,  as  if  it  grew  lustier 
by  the  going  back.  As  we  see  in  the  contention  of  leaping,  they 
jump  farthest  that  fetch  their  race  largest ;  or,  as  in  throwing  a  dart 
or  javelin,  we  force  back  our  arms  to  make  our  loose  the  stronger. 
Yet,  if  we  have  a  fair  gale  of  wind,  I  forbid  not  the  steering  out  of 
our  sail,  so  the  favour  of  the  gale  deceive  us  not.  For  all  that  we 


DE  STILO.     PRJECIP1ENDI  MODI  115 

invent  doth  please  us  in  the  conception  of  birth,  else  we  would 
never  set  it  down.  But  the  safest  is  to  return  to  our  judgment, 
and  handle  over  again  those  things  the  easiness  of  which  might 
make  them  justly  suspected.  So  did  the  best  writers  in  their 
beginnings ;  they  imposed  upon  themselves  care  and  industry ; 
they  did  nothing  rashly  :  they  obtained  first  to  write  well,  and  then 
custom  made  it  easy  and  a  habit.  By  little  and  little  their  matter 
showed  itself  to  them  more  plentifully ;  their  words  answered, 
their  composition  followed ;  and  all,  as  in  a  well-ordered  family, 
presented  itself  in  the  place.  So  that  the  sum  of  all  is,  ready  writ- 
ing makes  not  good  writing,  but  good  writing  brings  on  ready 
writing.  Yet,  when  we  think  we  have  got  the  faculty,  it  is  even 
then  good  to  resist  it,  as  to  give  a  horse  a  check  sometimes  with  a 
bit,  which  doth  not  so  much  stop  his  course  as  stir  his  mettle. 
Again,  whither  a  man's  genius  is  best  able  to  reach,  thither  it 
should  more  and  more  contend,  lift  and  dilate  itself ;  as  men  of  low 
stature  raise  themselves  on  their  toes,  and  so  ofttimes  get  even,  if 
not  eminent.  Besides,  as  it  is  fit  for  grown  and  able  writers  to 
stand  of  themselves,  and  work  with  their  own  strength,  to  trust 
and  endeavour  by  their  own  faculties,  so  it  is  fit  for  the  beginner 
and  learner  to  study  others  and  the  best.  For  the  mind  and 
memory  are  more  sharply  exercised  in  comprehending  another 
man's  things  than  our  own ;  and  such  as  accustom  themselves  and 
are  familiar  with  the  best  authors  shall  ever  and  anon  find  some- 
what of  them  in  themselves,  and  in  the  expression  of  their  minds, 
even  when  they  feel  it  not,  be  able  to  utter  something  like  theirs, 
which  hath  an  authority  above  their  own.  Kay,  sometimes  it  is  the 
reward  of  a  man's  study,  the  praise  of  quoting  another  man  fitly ; 
and  though  a  man  be  more  prone  and  able  for  one  kind  of  writing 
than  another,  yet  he  must  exercise  all.  For  as  in  an  instrument, 
so  in  style,  there  must  be  a  harmony  and  consent  of  parts. 

PrcBcipiendi  modi.  —  I  take  this  labour  in  teaching  others,  that 
they  should  not  be  always  to  be  taught,  and  I  would  bring  my  pre- 
cepts into  practice,  for  rules  are  ever  of  less  force  and  value  than 
experiments ;  yet  with  this  purpose,  rather  to  show  the  right  way 
to  those  that  come  after,  than  to  detect  any  that  have  slipped  before 
by  error.  And  I  hope  it  will  be  more  profitable;  for  men  do  more 


116  BEN  JONSON 

willingly  listen,  and  with  more  favour,  to  precept,  than  reprehens- 
ion. Among  divers  opinions  of  an  art,  and  most  of  them  contrary 
in.  themselves,  it  is  hard  to  make  election ;  and,  therefore,  though 
a  man  cannot  invent  new  things  after  so  many,  he  may  do  a 
welcome  work  yet  to  help  posterity  to  judge  rightly  of  the  old.  But 
arts  and  precepts  avail  nothing,  except  Nature  be  beneficial  and 
aiding.  And  therefore  these  things  are  no  more  written  to  a  dull 
disposition,  than  rules  of  husbandry  to  a  barren  soil.  No  precepts 
will  profit  a  fool,  no  more  than  beauty  will  the  blind,  or  music  the 
deaf.  As  we  should  ta'ke  care  that  our  style  in  writing  be  neither 
dry  nor  empty,  we  should  look  again  it  be  not  winding,  or  wanton 
with  far-fetched  descriptions :  either  is  a  vice.  But  that  is  worse 
which  proceeds  out  of  want,  than  that  which  riots  out  of  plenty. 
The  remedy  of  fruitfulness  is  easy,  but  no  labour  will  help  the 
contrary.  I  will  like  and  praise  some  things  in  a  young  writer 
which  yet,  if  he  continue  in,  I  cannot  but  justly  hate  him  for  the 
same.  There  is  a  time  to  be  given  all  things  for  maturity,  and 
that  even  your  country  husbandman  can  teach,  who  to  a  young 
plant  will  not  put  the  pruning-knife,  because  it  seems  to  fear  the 
iron,  as  not  able  to  admit  the  scar.  No  more  would  I  tell  a  green 
writer  all  his  faults,  lest  I  should  make  him  grieve  and  faint,  and 
at  last  despair.  For  nothing  doth  more  hurt  than  to  make  him  so 
afraid  of  all  things  as  he  can  endeavour  nothing.  Therefore  youth 
ought  to  be  instructed  betimes,  and  in  the  best  things ;  for  we  hold 
those  longest  we  take  soonest,  as  the  first  scent  of  a  vessel  lasts, 
and  the  tinct  the  wool  first  receives.  Therefore  a  master  should 
temper  his  own  powers,  and  descend  to  the  other's  infirmity.  If 
yon  pour  a  glut  of  water  upon  a  bottle,  it  receives  little  of  it ;  but 
with  a  funnel,  and  by  degrees,  you  shall  fill  many  of  them,  and 
spill  little  of  your  own ;  to  their  capacity  they  will  all  receive  and 
be  full.  And  as  it  is  fit  to  read  the  best  authors  to  youth  first, 
so  let  them  be  of  the  openest  and  clearest,  as  Livy  before  Sallust, 
Sidney  before  Donne.  And  beware  of  letting  them  taste  Gower 
or  Chaucer  at  first,  lest,  falling  too  much  in  love  with  antiquity, 
and  not  apprehending  the  weight,  they  grow  rough  and  barren  in 
language  only.  When  their  judgments  are  firm,  and  out  of  danger, 
let  them  read  both  the  old  and  the  new ;  but  no  less  take  heed 


DE  STILO.     PR^ECIPIENDI  MODI  117 

that  their  new  flowers  and  sweetness  do  not  as  much  corrupt  as  the 
others'  dryness  and  squalor,  if  they  choose  not  carefully.  Spenser, 
in  affecting  the  ancients,  writ  no  language ;  yet  I  would  have  him 
read  for  his  matter,  but  as  Virgil  read  Ennius.  The  reading  of 
Homer  and  Virgil  is  counselled  by  Quintilian  as  the  best  way  of 
informing  youth  and  confirming  man.  For,  besides  that  the  mind 
is  raised  with  the  height  and  sublimity  of  such  a  verse,  it  takes 
spirit  from  the  greatness  of  the  matter,  and  is  tincted  with  the  best 
things.  Tragic  and  lyric  poetry  is  good  too,  and  comic  with  the 
best,  if  the  manners  of  the  reader  be  once  in  safety.  In  the  Greek 
poets,  as  also  in  Plautus,  we  shall  see  the  economy  and  disposition 
of  poems  better  observed  than  in  Terence  and  the  later  [qu.  Greek 
poets],  who  thought  the  sole  grace  and  virtue  of  their  fable  the 
sticking  in  of  sentences,  as  ours  do  the  forcing  in  of  jests. 

Prcecept[a~]  element\_aria\.  —  It  is  not  the  passing  through  these 
learnings  that  hurts  us,  but  the  dwelling  and  sticking  about  them. 
To  descend  to  those  extreme  anxieties  and  foolish  cavils  of  gram- 
marians, is  able  to  break  a  wit  in  pieces,  being  a  work  of  manifold 
misery  and  vainness,  to  be  elementarii  senes.  Yet  even  letters  are, 
as  it  were,  the  bank  of  words,  and  restore  themselves  to  an  author 
as  the  pawns  of  language.  But  talking  and  eloquence  are  not  the 
same :  to  speak,  and  to  speak  well,  are  two  things.  A  fool  may 
talk,  but  a  wise  man  speaks ;  and  out  of  the  observation,  know- 
ledge, and  the  use  of  things,  many  writers  perplex  their  readers 
and  hearers  with  mere  nonsense.  Their  writings  need  sunshine. 
Pure  and  neat  language  I  love,  yet  plain  and  customary.  A  bar- 
barous phrase  hath  often  made  me  out  of  love  with  a  good  sense, 
and  doubtful  writing  hath  [w]racked  me  beyond  my  patience.  The 
reason  why  a  poet  is  said  that  he  ought  to  have  all  knowledges  is, 
that  he  should  not  be  ignorant  of  the  most,  especially  of  those  he 
will  handle.  And  indeed,  when  the  attaining  of  them  is  possible, 
it  were  a  sluggish  and  base  thing  to  despair ;  for  frequent  imitation 
of  anything  becomes  a  habit  quickly.  If  a  man  should  prosecute  as 
much  as  could  be  said  of  everything,  his  work  would  find  no  end. 

De  orationis  dignitate.  —  Speech  is  the  only  benefit  man  hath  to 
express  his  excellency  of  mind  above  other  creatures.  It  is  the 
instrument  of  society ;  therefore  Mercury,  who  is  the  president  of 


118  BEN  JONSON 

language,  is  called  deorum  hominumque  interpres.  In  all  speech, 
words  and  sense  are  as  the  body  and  the  soul.  The  sense  is  as  the 
life  and  soul  of  language,  without  which  all  words  are  dead.  Sense 
is  wrought  out  of  experience,  the  knowledge  of  human  life  and 
actions,  or  of  the  liberal  arts,  which  the  Greeks  called  'EyKVK\oTrai- 
Soav.  Words  are  the  people's,  yet  there  is  a  choice  of  them  to  be 
made ;  for  verborum  delectus  origo  est  eloquential.  They  are  to  be 
chose  according  to  the  persons  we  make  speak,  or  the  things  we 
speak  of.  Some  are  of  the  camp,  some  of  the  council-board,  some 
of  the  shop,  some  of  the  sheepcot,  some  of  the  pulpit,  some  of 
the  bar,  etc.  And  herein  is  seen  their  elegance  and  propriety, 
when  we  use  them  fitly  and  draw  them  forth  to  their  just  strength 
and  nature  by  way  of  translation  or  metaphor.  But  in  this  trans- 
lation we  must  only  serve  necessity  (jiam  temere  nihil  transfertur 
a  prudenti)  or  commodity,  which  is  a  kind  of  necessity  :  that  is, 
when  we  either  absolutely  want  a  word  to  express  by,  and  that  is 
necessity ;  or  when  we  have  not  so  fit  a  word,  and  that  is  commod- 
ity ;  as  when  we  avoid  loss  by  it,  and  escape  obsceneness,  and  gain 
in  the  grace  and  property  which  helps  significance.  Metaphors 
far-fet  hinder  to  be  understood ;  and  affected,  lose  their  grace.  Or 
when  the  person  fetcheth  his  translations  from  a  wrong  place :  as 
if  a  privy  councillor  should  at  the  table  take  his  metaphor  from  a 
dicing-house,  or  ordinary,  or  a  vintner's  vault ;  or  a  justice  of  peace 
draw  his  similitudes  from  the  mathematics  ;  or  a  divine  from  a 
bawdy-house,  or  taverns  ;  or  a  gentleman  of  Northamptonshire, 
Warwickshire,  or  the  Midland,  should  fetch  all  the  illustrations  to 
his  country  neighbors  from  shipping,  and  tell  them  of  the  main- 
sheet  and  the  bowline.  Metaphors  are  thus  many  times  deformed, 
as  in  him  that  said,  Castratam  morte  Africani  rempublicam ;  and 
another,  Stercus  curice  Glauciam,  and  Cana  nlve  conspuit  Alpes. 
All  attempts  that  are  new  in  this  kind,  are  dangerous,  and  some- 
what hard,  before  they  be  softened  with  use.  A  man  coins  not  a 
new  word  without  some  peril  and  less  fruit ;  for  if  it  happen  to  be 
received,  the  praise  is  but  moderate ;  if  refused,  the  scorn  is  assured. 
Yet  we  must  adventure ;  for  things  at  first  hard  and  rough  are  by 
use  made  tender  and  gentle.  It  is  an  honest  error  that  is  committed, 
following  great  chiefs. 


CONSUETUDO  119 

CONSUETUDO 

(cum  seq.) 

Custom  is  the  most  certain  mistress  of  language,  as  the  public 
stamp  makes  the  current  money.  But  we  must  not  be  too  frequent 
with  the  mint,  every  day  coining,  nor  fetch  words  from  the  extreme 
and  utmost  ages ;  since  the  chief  virtue  of  a  style  is  perspicuity, 
and  nothing  so  vicious  in  it  as  to  need  an  interpreter.  Words 
borrowed  of  antiquity  do  lend  a  kind  of  majesty  to  style,  and  are 
not  without  their  delight  sometimes ;  for  they  have  the  authority 
of  years,  and  out  of  their  intermission  do  win  themselves  a  kind  of 
gracelike  newness.  But  the  eldest  of  the  present,  and  newest  of 
the  past  language,  is  the  best.  For  what  was  the  ancient  language, 
which  some  men  so  dote  upon,  but  the  ancient  custom  ?  Yet  when 
I  name  custom,  I  understand  not  the  vulgar  custom ;  for  that  were 
a  precept  no  less  dangerous  to  language  than  life,  if  we  should 
speak  or  live  after  the  manners  of  the  vulgar :  but  that  I  call  cus- 
tom of  speech,  which  is  the  consent  of  the  learned ;  as  custom  of 
life,  which  is  the  consent  of  the  good.  Virgil  was  most  loving  of 
antiquity;  yet  how  rarely  doth  he  insert  aquai  and  pictai !  Lucre- 
tius is  scabrous  and  rough  in  these ;  he  seeks  them :  as  some  do 
Chaucerisms  with  us,  which  were  better  expunged  and  banished. 
Some  words  are  to  be  culled  out  for  ornament  and  colour,  as  we 
gather  flowers  to  straw  houses  or  make  garlands ;  but  they  are 
better  when  they  grow  to  our  style  as  in  a  meadow,  where,  though 
the  mere  grass  and  greenness  delights,  yet  the  variety  of  flowers 
doth  heighten  and  beautify.  Marry,  we  must  not  play  or  riot  too 
much  with  them,  as  in  paronomasies ;  nor  use  too  swelling  or  ill- 
sounding  words,  quce  per  salebras,  altaque  saxa  cadunt.  It  is  true, 
there  is  no  sound  but  shall  find  some  lovers,  as  the  bitterest  con- 
fections are  grateful  to  some  palates.  Our  composition  must  be 
more  accurate  in  the  beginning  and  end  than  in  the  midst,  and  in 
the  end  more  than  in  the  beginning ;  for  through  the  midst  the 
stream  bears  us.  And  this  is  attained  by  custom,  more  than  care 
or  diligence.  We  must  express  readily  and  fully,  not  profusely. 
There  is  difference  between  a  liberal  and  prodigal  hand.  As  it  is 


120  BEN  JONSON 

a  great  point  of  art,  when  our  matter  requires  it,  to  enlarge  and 
veer  out  all  sail,  so  to  take  it  in  and  contract  it,  is  of  no  less  praise, 
when  the  argument  doth  ask  it.  Either  of  them  hath  their  fitness 
in  the  place.  A  good  man  always  profits  by  his  endeavour,  by  his 
help,  yea,  when  he  is  absent ;  nay,  when  he  is  dead,  by  his  example 
and  memory :  so  good  authors  in  their  style.  A  strict  and  succinct 
style  is  that  where  you  can  take  away  nothing  without  loss,  and 
that  loss  to  be  manifest. 

DE    STILO  • 

Tacitus,  The  Laconic,  Suetonius,  Seneca,  and  Fabiamis.  —  The 
brief  style  is  that  which  expresseth  much  in  little ;  the  concise 
style,  which  expresseth  not  enough  but  leaves  somewhat  to  be 
understood ;  the  abrupt  style,  which  hath  many  breaches,  and  doth 
not  seem  to  end  but  fall.  The  congruent  and  harmonious  fitting 
of  parts  in  a  sentence  hath  almost  the  fastening  and  force  of  knit- 
ting and  connection;  as  in  stones  well  squared,  which  will  rise 
strong  a  great  way  without  mortar. 

Periods  are  beautiful  when  they  are  not  too  long ;  for  so  they 
have  their  strength  too,  as  in  a  pike  or  javelin.  As  we  must  take 
the  care  that  our  words  and  sense  be  clear,  so  if  the  obscurity 
happen  through  the  hearer's  or  reader's  want  of  understanding,  I  am 
not  to  answer  for  them,  no  more  than  for  their  not  listening  or 
marking ;  I  must  neither  find  them  ears  nor  mind.  But  a  man 
cannot  put  a  word  so  in  sense  but  something  about  it  will  illustrate 
it,  if  the  writer  understand  himself ;  for  order  helps  much  to  per- 
spicuity, as  "confusion  hurts.  Rectitudo  lucem  adfert;  obliquitas  et 
circumductio  offuscat.  We  should  therefore  speak  what  we  can  the 
nearest  way,  so  as  we  keep  our  gait,  not  leap ;  for  too  short  may  as 
well  be  not  let  into  the  memory,  as  too  long  not  kept  in.  Obscuri- 
tas  offundit  tenebras.  Whatsoever  loseth  the  grace  and  clearness, 
converts  into  a  riddle ;  the  obscurity  is  marked,  but  not  the  value. 
That  perisheth,  and  is  passed  by,  like  the*  pearl  in  the  fable.  Our 
style  should  be  like  a  skein  of  silk,  to  be  carried  and  found  by  the 
right  thread,  not  ravelled  and  perplexed :  then  all  is  a  knot,  a  heap. 
There  are  words  that  do  as  much  raise  a  style  as  others  can  depress 
it.  Superlation  and  overmuchness  amplifies;  it  may  be  above 


DE    STILO  121 

faith,  but  never  above  a  mean.     It  was  ridiculous  in  Cestius,  when 
he  said  of  Alexander : 

Fremit  oceanus,  quasi  indignetur,  quod  terras  relinquas. 
But  propitiously  from  Virgil : 

Credas  innare  revulsas 
Cycladas. 

He  doth  not  say  it  was  so,  but  seemed  to  be  so.  Although  it  be 
somewhat  incredible,  that  is  excused  before  it  be  spoken.  But 
there  are  hyperboles  which  will  become  one  language,  that  will  by 
no  means  admit  another.  As  Eos  esse  P[opuli~\  R[omani]  exercitus, 
qui  coKlum  possint  perrumpere,  who  would  say  with  us,  but  a  mad- 
man ?  Therefore  we  must  consider  in  every  tongue  what  is  used, 
what  received.  Quintilian  warns  us,  that  in  no  kind  of  translation, 
or  metaphor,  or  allegory,  we  make  a  turn  from  what  we  began ;  as 
if  we  fetch  the  original  of  our  metaphor  from  sea  and  billows,  we 
end  not  in  flames  and  ashes  :  it  is  a  most  foul  inconsequence. 
Neither  must  we  draw  out  our  allegory  too  long,  lest  either  we 
make  ourselves  obscure,  or  fall  into  affectation,  which  is  childish. 
But  why  do  men  depart  at  all  from  the  right  and  natural  ways  of 
speaking  ?  Sometimes  for  necessity,  when  we  are  driven,  or  think 
it  fitter,  to  speak  that  in  obscure  words,  or  by  circumstance,  which 
uttered  plainly  would  offend  the  hearers ;  or  to  avoid  obsceneness, 
or  sometimes  for  pleasure,  and  variety,  as  travellers  turn  out  of  the 
highway,  drawn  either  by  the  commodity  of  a  footpath,  or  the 
delicacy  or  freshness  of  the  fields.  And  all  this  is  called  eo-^^/xaTio-- 
fievrj,  or  figured  language. 

Oratio  imago  animi.  —  Language  most  shows  a  man  :  Speak,  that 
I  may  see  thee.  It  springs  out  of  the  most  retired  and  inmost 
parts  of  us,  and  is  the  image  of  the  parent  of  it,  the  mind.  No 
glass  renders  a  man's  form  or  likeness  so  true  as  his  speech.  Nay, 
it  is  likened  to  a  man ;  and  as  we  consider  feature  and  composition 
in  a  man,  so  words  in  language ;  in  the  greatness,  aptness,  sound 
structure,  and  harmony  of  it. 

Structura  et  statura.  —  Some  men  are  tall  and  big,  so  some  langu- 
age is  high  and  great :  sublimis.  Then  the  words  are  chosen, 
their  sound  ample,  the  composition  full,  the  absolution  plenteous, 


122  BEN  JONSON 

and  poured  out,  all  grave,  sinewy,  and  strong.  Some  are  little  and 
dwarfs,  humilis,  pumila;  so  of  speech,  it  is  humble  and  low,  the 
words  poor  and  flat,  the  members  and  periods  thin  and  weak,  with- 
out knitting  or  number.  Mediocris  plana  et  placida.  —  The  middle 
are  of  a  just  stature.  There  the  language  is  plain  and  pleasing ; 
even  without  stopping,  round  without  swelling:  all  well-turned, 
composed,  elegant,  and  accurate.  Vitiosa  oratio,  vasta,  tumens, 
enormis,  affectata,  abjecta.  —  The  vicious  language  is  vast  and  gap- 
ing, swelling  and  irregular :  when  it  contends  to  be  high,  full  of 
rock,  mountain,  and  pointedness  ;  as  it  affects  to  be  low,  it  is  abject, 
and  creeps,  full  of  bogs  and  holes.  And  according  to  their  subject 
these  styles  vary,  and  lose  their  names  :  for  that  which  is  high  and 
lofty,  declaring  excellent  matter,  becomes  vast  and  tumorous, 
speaking  of  petty  and  inferior  things ;  so  that  which  was  even  and 
apt  in  a  mean  and  plain  subject,  will  appear  most  poor  and  humble 
in  a  high  argument.  Would  you  not  laugh  to  meet  a  great  council- 
lor of  State  in  a  flat  cap,  with  his  trunk  hose,  and  a  hobby-horse 
cloak,  his  gloves  under  his  girdle,  and  yond  haberdasher  in  a  velvet 
gown,  furred  with  sables?  There  is  a  certain  latitude  in  these 
things,  by  which  we  find  the  degrees. 

The  next  thing  to  the  stature  is  the  figure,  figura,  and  feature  in 
language,  that  is,  whether  it  be  round  and  straight,  which  consists 
of  short  and  succinct  periods,  numerous  and  polished ;  or  square 
and  firm,  which  is  to  have  equal  and  strong  parts  everywhere 
answerable,  and  weighed. 

The  third  is  the  skin  and  coat,  cut-is  sive  cortex,  which  rests  in  the 
well-joining,  cementing,  and  coagmentation  of  words,  composition 
whenas  it  is  smooth,  gentle,  and  sweet,  like  a  table  upon  which  you 
may  run  your  finger  without  rubs,  and  your  nail  cannot  find  a  joint ; 
not  horrid,  rough,  wrinkled,  gaping,  or  chapped. 

After  these,  the  flesh,  blood,  and  bones  come  in  question.  We 
say  it  is  a  fleshy  style,  carnosa,  when  there  is  much  periphrasis, 
and  circuit  of  words ;  and  when  with  more  than  enough,  it  grows 
fat  and  corpulent,  adipata,  redimdans:  arvina  orationis,  full  of  suet 
and  tallow.  It  hath  blood  and  juice  when  the  words  are  proper 
and  apt,  their  sound  sweet,  and  the  phrase  neat  and  picked  —  oratio 
uncta,  et  bene  pasta.  But  where  there  is  redundancy,  both  the  blood 


POETA,  ETC.  123 

and  juice  are  faulty  and  vicious  :  — Redundat  sanguine,  qua  multo 
phis  dicit,  quam  necesse  est.  Juice  in  language  is  somewhat  less 
than  blood ;  for  if  the  words  be  but  becoming  and  signifying, 
and  the  sense  gentle,  there  is  juice ;  but  where  that  wanteth,  the 
language  is  thin,  flagging,  poor,  starved,  scarce  covering  the 
bone,  jejuna,  macilenta,  strigosa,  and  shews  like  stones  in  a  sack. 
Some  men,  to  avoid  redundancy,  run  into  that;  and  while  they 
strive  to  have  no  ill  blood  or  juice,  they  lose  their  good.  There 
be  some  styles,  again,  that  have  not  less  blood,  but  less  flesh  and 
corpulence.  These  are  bony  and  sinewy,  ossea  et  nervosa ;  Ossa 
habent,  et  nervos. 

De  poetica.  —  We  have  spoken  sufficiently  of  oratory,  let  us  now 
make  a  diversion  to  poetry.  Poetry,  in  the  primogeniture,  had 
many  peccant  humours,  and  is  made  to  have  more  now,  through  the 
levity  and  inconstancy  of  men's  judgments.  Whereas,  indeed,  it  is 
the  most  prevailing  eloquence,  and  of  the  most  exalted  charact. 
Now  the  discredits  and  disgraces  are  many  it  hath  received  through 
men's  study  of  depravation  or  calumny ;  their  practice  being  to 
give  it  diminution  of  credit,  by  lessening  the  professors'  estimation, 
and  making  the  age  afraid  of  their  liberty;  and  the  age  is  grown 
so  tender  of  her  fame,  as  she  calls  all  writings  "aspersions." 
That  is  the  state  word,  the  phrase  of  court,  Placentia  College, 
which  some  call  Parasites'  Place,  the  Inn  of  Ignorance. 


POETA,   ETC. 

What  is  a  poet?  —  A  poet,  poeta,  is  that  which  by  the  Greeks  is 
called  KO.T  e£ox?7v,  6  TTOIT/T^S,  a  maker,  or  a  feigner :  his  art,  an  art 
of  imitation  or  feigning ;  expressing  the  life  of  man  in  fit  measure, 
numbers,  and  harmony  ;  according  to  Aristotle  from  the  word  TroteTv, 
which  signifies  to  make  or  feign.  Hence  he  is  called  a  poet,  not 
he  which  writeth  in  measure  only,  but  that  feigneth  and  formeth  a 
fable,  and  writes  things  like  the  truth.  For  the  fable  and  fiction 
is,  as  it  were,  the  form  and  soul  of  any  poetical  work  or  poem. 

What  mean  you  by  a  poem  ?  —  A  poem,  poema,  is  not  alone  any 
work  or  composition  of  the  poet's  in  many  or  few  verses ;  but  even 


124  BEN  JONSON 

one  alone  verse  sometimes  makes  a  perfect  poem.     As  when 
hangs  up  and  consecrates  the  arms  of  Abas  with  this  inscription : 

JEneas  haec  de  Danais  victoribus  arma, 
and  calls  it  a  poem  or  carmen.     Such  are  those  in  Martial : 

Omnia,  Castor,  emis:  sic  fiet,  ut  omnia  vendas, 
and  — 

Pauper  videri  Cinna  vult,  et  est  pauper. 

So  were  Horace  his  odes  called  Carmina,  his  lyric  songs.  And 
Lucretius  designs  a  whole  book  in  his  sixth  — 

Quod  in  primo  quoque  carmine  claret. 

And  anciently  all  the  oracles  were  called  Carmina;  or  whatever 
sentence  was  expressed,  were  it  much  or  little,  it  was  called  an  Epic, 
Dramatic,  Lyric,  Elegiac,  or  Epigrammatic  poem. 

But  how  differs  a  Poem  from  what  we  call  a  Poesy  ?  —  A  poem, 
as  I  have  told  you,  is  the  work  of  the  poet ;  the  end  and  fruit  of 
his  labour  and  study.  Poesy,  poesis,  is  his  skill  or  craft  of  making ; 
the  very  fiction  itself,  the  reason  or  form  of  the  work.  And  these 
three  voices  differ,  as  the  thing  done,  the  doing,  and  the  doer ;  the 
thing  feigned,  the  feigning,  and  the  feigner;  so  the  poem,  the 
poesy,  and  the  poet.  Now  the  poesy  is  the  habit  or  the  art ;  nay, 
rather  the  queen  of  arts,  artium  regina,  which  had  her  original  from 
heaven,  received  thence  from  the  Hebrews,  and  had  in  prime  estim- 
ation with  the  Greeks,  transmitted  to  the  Latins  and  all  nations 
that  professed  civility.  The  study  of  it,  if  we  will  trust  Aristotle, 
offers  to  mankind  a  certain  rule  and  pattern  of  living  well  and 
happily,  disposing  us  to  all  civil  offices  of  society.  If  we  will 
believe  Tully,  it  nourisheth  and  instructeth  our  youth,  delights  our 
age,  adorns  our  prosperity,  comforts  our  adversity,  entertains  us  at 
home,  keeps  us  company  abroad,  travels  with  us,  watches,  divides 
the  times  of  our  earnest  and  sports,  shares  in  our  country  recesses 
and  recreations;  insomuch  as  the  wisest  and  best  learned  have 
thought  her  the  absolute  mistress  of  manners  and  nearest  of  kin  to 
virtue.  And  whereas  they  entitle  philosophy  to  be  a  rigid  and 
austere  poesy,  they  have,  on  the  contrary,  styled  poesy  a  dulcet  and 
gentle  philosophy,  which  leads  on  and  guides  us  by  the  hand  to 
action  with  a  ravishing  delight  and  incredible  sweetness.  But 


POET  A,   ETC.  125 

before  we  handle  the  kinds  of  poems,  with  their  special  differences, 
or  make  court  to  the  art  itself  as  a  mistress,  I  would  lead  you  to  the 
knowledge  of  our  poet  by  a  perfect  information  what  he  is  or  should 
be  by  nature,  by  exercise,  by  imitation,  by  study,  and  so  bring  him 
down  through  the  disciplines  of  grammar,  logic,  rhetoric,  and  the 
ethics,  adding  somewhat  out  of  all,  peculiar  to  himself,  and  worthy 
of  your  admittance  or  reception. 

First,  we  require  in  our  poet  or  maker  (for  that  title  our  language 
affords  him  elegantly  with  the  Greek)  a  goodness  of  natural  wit, 
ingenium.  For  whereas  all  other  arts  consist  of  doctrine  and  pre- 
cepts, the  poet  must  be  able  by  nature  and  instinct  to  pour  out 
the  treasure  of  his  mind,  and  as  Seneca  saith,  Aliquando  secundum 
Anacreontem  insanire  jucundum  esse;  by  which  he  understands  the 
poetical  rapture.  And  according  to  that  of  Plato,  Frustra  poeticas 
fores  sui  compos  pulsavit.  And  of  Aristotle,  Nullum  magnum  inge- 
nium sine  mixtura  dementice  fuit.  Necpotest  grande  aliquid,  et  supra 
cceteros  loqui,  nisi  mota  mens.  Then  it  riseth  higher,  as  by  a  divine 
instinct,  when  it  contemns  common  and  known  conceptions.  It 
utters  somewhat  above  a  mortal  mouth.  Then  it  gets  aloft  and  flies 
away  with  his  rider,  whither  before  it  was  doubtful  to  ascend. 
This  the  poets  understood  by  their  Helicon,  Pegasus,  or  Parnassus  ; 
and  this  made  Ovid  to  boast, 

Est  deus  in  nobis,  agitante  calescimus  illo : 
Sedibus  sethereis  spiritus  ille  venit. 

And  Lipsius  to  affirm,  "  Scio  poetam  neminem  prccstantem  fuisse,  sine 
parte  quadam  uberiore  divince  aurce."  And  hence  it  is  that  the 
coming  up  of  good  poets  (for  I  mind  not  mediocres  or  imos)  is  so 
thin  and  rare  among  us.  Every  beggarly  corporation  affords  the 
State  a  mayor  or  two  bailiffs  yearly ;  but  solus  rex,  aut  poeta,  non 
quotannis  nascitur. 

To  this  perfection  of  nature  in  our  poet  we  require  exercise  of 
those  parts,  exercitatio,  and  frequent.  If  his  wit  will  not  arrive 
suddenly  at  the  dignity  of  the  ancients,  let  him  not  yet  fall  out 
with  it,  quarrel,  or  be  over  hastily  angry,  offer  to  turn  it  away  from 
study  in  a  humour ;  but  come  to  it  again  upon  better  cogitation,  try 
another  time  with  labour.  If  then  it  succeed  not,  cast  not  away 


126  BEN  JONSON 

the  quills  yet,  nor  scratch  the  wainscot,  beat  not  the  poor  desk,  but 
bring  all  to  the  forge  and  file  again  ;  torn  it  anew.  There  is  no 
statute  law  of  the  kingdom  bids  you  be  a  poet  against  your  will  or 
the  first  quarter;  if  it  comes  in  a  year  or  two,  it  is  well.  The 
common  rimers  pour  forth  verses,  such  as  they  are,  ex  tempore;  but 
there  never  come[s]  from  them  one  sense  worth  the  life  of  a  day. 
A  rimer  and  a  poet  are  two  things.  It  is  said  of  the  incomparable 
Virgil  that  he  brought  forth  his  verses  like  a  bear,  and  after  formed 
them  with  licking.  Scaliger  the  father  writes  it  of  him,  that  he 
made  a  quantity  of  verses  in  the  morning,  which  afore  night  he 
reduced  to  a  less  number.  But  that  which  Valerius  Maximus 
hath  left  recorded  of  Euripides,  the  tragic  poet,  his  answer  to 
Alcestis,  another  poet,  is  as  memorable  as  modest;  who,  when 
it  was  told  to  Alcestis  that  Euripides  had  in  three  days  brought 
forth  but  three  verses,  and  those  with  some  difficulty  and  throes, 
Alcestis,  glorying  he  could  with  ease  have  sent  forth  a  hundred  in 
the  space,  Euripides  roundly  replied,  "  Like  enough  ;  but  here  is 
the  difference :  thy  verses  will  not  last  those  three  days,  mine 
will  to  all  time."  Which  was  as  much  as  to  tell  him  he  could 
not  write  a  verse.  I  have  met  many  of  these  rattles  that  made 
a  noise  and  buzzed.  They  had  their  hum,  and  no  more.  Indeed, 
things  wrote  with  labour  deserve  to  be  so  read,  and  will  last 
their  age. 

The  third  requisite  in  our  poet  or  maker  is  imitation,  imitatio, 
to  be  able  to  convert  the  substance  or  riches  of  another  poet  to  his 
own  use.  To  make  choice  of  one  excellent  man  above  the  rest,  and 
so  to  follow  him  till  he  grow  very  he,  or  so  like  him  as  the  copy 
may  be  mistaken  for  the  principal.  Not  as  a  creature  that  swallows 
what  it  takes  in,  crude,  raw,  or  undigested ;  but  that  feeds  with  an 
appetite,  and  hath  a  stomach  to  concoct,  divide,  and  turn  all  into 
nourishment.  Not  to  imitate  servilely,  as  Horace  saith,  and  catch 
at  vices  for  virtue,  but  to  draw  forth  out  of  the  best  and  choicest 
flowers,  with  the  bee,  and  turn  all  into  honey,  work  it  into  one 
relish  and  savour ;  make  our  imitation  sweet ;  observe  how  the  best 
writers  have  imitated,  and  follow  them :  how  Virgil  and  Statius 
have  imitated  Homer ;  how  Horace,  Archilochus ;  how  Alcseus,  and 
the  other  lyrics  ;  and  so  of  the  rest. 


POETA,  ETC.  127 

But  that  which  we  especially  require  in  him  is  an  exactness  of 
study  and  multiplicity  of  reading,  lectio,  which  inaketh  a  full  man, 
not  alone  enabling  him  to  know  the  history  or  argument  of  a  poem 
and  to  report  it,  but  so  to  master  the  matter  and  style,  as  to  show 
he  knows  how  to  handle,  place,  or  dispose  of  either  with  elegancy 
when  need  shall  be.  And  not  think  he  can  leap  forth  suddenly  a 
poet  by  dreaming  he  hath  been  in  Parnassus,  or  having  washed  his 
lips,  as  they  say,  in  Helicon.  There  goes  more  to  his  making  than 
so ;  for  to  nature,  exercise,  imitation,  and  study  art  must  be  added 
to  make  all  these  perfect.  Ars  coron[at  opus].  And  though  these 
challenge  to  themselves  much  in  the  making  up  of  our  maker,  it  is 
art  only  can  lead  him  to  perfection,  and  leave  him  there  in  possess- 
ion, as  planted  by  her  hand.  '  It  is  the  assertion  of  Tully,  if  to  an 
excellent  nature  there  happen  an  accession  or  conformation  of 
learning  and  discipline,  there  will  then  remain  somewhat  noble  and 
singular.  For,  as  Simylus  l  saith  in  Stobaeus,  Oure  </>uo-is  iKarq  ylvt- 
rat  rexyrjs  arep,  oure  trav  re^yrj  p.r)  <f>v<Tiv  KCKTi^eVr;,  without  art  nature 
can  never  be  perfect ;  and  without  nature  art  can  claim  no  being. 
But  our  poet  must  beware  that  his  study  be  not  only  to  learn  of 
himself;  for  he  that  shall  affect  to  do  that  confesseth  his  ever 
having  a  fool  to  his  master.  He  must  read  many,  but  ever  the  best 
and  choicest ;  those  that  can  teach  him  anything  he  must  ever 
account  his  masters,  and  reverence.  Among  whom  Horace  and  he 
that  taught  him,  Aristotle,  deserved  to  be  the  first  in  estimation. 
Aristotle  was  the  first  accurate  critic  and  truest  judge,  nay,  the 
greatest  philosopher  the  world  ever  had ;  for  he  noted  the  vices  of 
all  knowledges  in  all  creatures,  and  out  of  many  men's  perfections 
in  a  science  he  formed  still  one  art.  So  he  taught  us  two  offices 
together,  how  we  ought  to  judge  rightly  of  others,  and  what  we 
ought  to  imitate  specially  in  ourselves  :  but  all  this  in  vain  without 
a  natural  wit  and  a  poetical  nature  in  chief.  For  no  man,  so  soon 
as  he  knows  this  or  reads  it,  shall  be  able  to  write  the  better ;  but 
as  he  is  adapted  to  it  by  nature,  he  shall  grow  the  perfecter  writer. 
He  must  have  civil  prudence  and  eloquence,  and  that  whole,  not 
taken  up  by  snatches  or  pieces  in  sentences  or  remnants  when  he 
will  handle  business  or  carry  counsels,  as  if  he  came  then  out  of 

1  v.  sup.,  p.  32. 


128  BEN  JONSON 

the  declaimer's  gallery,  or  shadow  furnished  but  out  of  the  body  of 
the  State,  which  commonly  is  the  school  of  men :  Virorum  scJwla 
respiil)[lica~\.  The  poet  is  the  nearest  borderer  upon  the  orator,  and 
expresseth  all  his  virtues,  though  he  be  tied  more  to  numbers,  is 
his  equal  in  ornament,  and  above  him  in  his  strengths.  And  of 
the  kind  the  comic  comes  nearest ;  because  in  moving  the  minds 
of  men,  and  stirring  of  affections,  in  which  oratory  shows,  and 
especially  approves  her  eminence,  he  chiefly  excels.  vWhat  figure 
of  a  body  was  Lysippus  ever  able  to  form  with  his  graver,  or 
Apelles  to  paint  with  his  pencil,  as  the  comedy  to  life  expresseth 
so  many  and  various  affections  of  the  mind  ?  There  shall  the 
spectator  see  some  insulting  with  joy,  others  fretting  with  melan- 
choly, raging  with  anger,  mad  with  love,  boiling  with  avarice, 
undone  with  riot,  tortured  with  expectation,  consumed  with  fear : 
no  perturbation  in  common  life  but  the  orator  finds  an  example  of 
it  in  the  scene.  And  then  for  the  elegancy  of  language,  read  but 
this  inscription  on  the  grave  of  a  comic  poet : 

Immortales  mortales  si  fas  esset  flere, 
Flerent  diva?  Camcenae  Naevium  poetam ; 
Itaque  postquain  est  Orcino  traditus  thesauro, 
Obliti  sunt  Romse  lingua  loqui  Latina. 

Or  that  modester  testimony  given  by  Lucius  ^Elius  Stilo  upon 
Plautus,  who  affirmed,  "Miisas,  si  Latine  loqui  voluissent,  Plautino 
sermone  fuisse  locuturas."  And  that  illustrious  judgment  by  the 
most  learned  M[arcus]  Varro  of  him,  who  pronounced  him  the 
prince  of  letters  and  elegancy  in  the  Roman  language. 

I  am  not  of  that  opinion  to  conclude  a  poet's  liberty  within  the 
narrow  limits  of  laws  which  either  the  grammarians  or  philosophers 
prescribe.  For  before  they  found  out  those  laws  there  were  many 
excellent  poets  that  fulfilled  them,  amongst  whom  none  more 
perfect  than  Sophocles,  who  lived  a  little  before  Aristotle.  Which 
of  the  Greeklings  durst  ever  give  precepts  to  Demosthenes  ?  or  to 
Pericles,  whom  the  age  surnamed  Heavenly,  because  he  seemed  to 
thunder  and  lighten  with  his  language  ?  or  to  Alcibiades,  who  had 
rather  Nature  for  his  guide  than  Art  for  his  master  ?  But  whatso- 
ever nature  at  any  time  dictated  to  the  most  happy,  or  long  exercise 
to  the  most  laborious,  that  the  wisdom  and  learning  of  Aristotle 


POETA,  ETC.  129 

hath  brought  into  an  art,  because  he  understood  the  causes  of 
things ;  and  what  other  men  did  by  chance  or  custom  he  doth  by 
reason ;  and  not  only  found  out  the  way  not  to  err,  but  the  short 
way  we  should  take  not  to  err. 

Many  things,  in  Euripides  hath  Aristophanes  wittily  reprehended, 
not  out  of  art,  but  out  of  truth.  For  Euripides  is  sometimes 
peccant,  as  he  is  most  times  perfect.  But  judgment  when  it  is 
greatest,  if  reason  doth  not  accompany  it,  is  not  ever  absolute. 

To  judge  of  poets  is  only  the  faculty  of  poets  ;  and  not  of  all 
poets,  but  the  best.  Nemo  infelicius  de  poetis  judicavit,  quam  qui 
de  poetis  scripsit.  But  some  will  say  critics  are  a  kind  of  tinkers, 
that  make  more  faults  than  they  mend  ordinarily.  See  their  dis- 
eases and  those  of  grammarians.  It  is  true,  many  bodies  are  the 
worse  for  the  meddling  with ;  and  the  multitude  of  physicians  hath 
destroyed  many  sound  patients  with  their  wrong  practice.  But  the 
office  of  a  true  critic  or  censor  is,  not  to  throw  by  a  letter  anywhere, 
or  damn  an  innocent  syllable,  but  lay  the  words  together,  and 
amend  them ;  judge  sincerely  of  the  author  and  his  matter,  which 
is  the  sign  of  solid  and  perfect  learning  in  a  man.  Such  was 
Horace,  an  author  of  much  civility,  and,  if  any  one  among  the 
heathen  can  be,  the  best  master  both  of  virtue  and  wisdom ;  an 
excellent  and  true  judge  upon  cause  and  reason,  not  because  he 
thought  so,  but  because  he  knew  so  out  of  use  and  experience. 

Cato,  the  grammarian,  a  defender  of  Lucilius. 

Cato  Grammaticus,  Latina  Siren, 
Qui  solus  legit,  et  facit  poetas. 

Quintilian  of  the  same  heresy,  but  rejected.  Horace  his  judg- 
ment of  Chcerilus  defended  against  Joseph  Scaliger,  and  of  Labe- 
rius  against  Julius.  But  chiefly  his  opinion  of  Plautus  vindicated 
against  many  that  are  offended,  and  say  it  is  a  hard  censure  upon 
the  parent  of  all  conceit  and  sharpness.  And  they  wish  it  had  not 
fallen  from  so  great  a  master  and  censor  in  the  art,  whose  bondmen 
knew  better  how  to  judge  of  Plautus  than  any  that  dare  patronize 
the  family  of  learning  in  this  age ;  who  could  not  be  ignorant  of 
the  judgment  of  the  times  in  which  he  lived,  when  poetry  and  the 
Latin  language  were  at  the  height ;  especially  being  a  man  so 


130  BEN  JONSON 

conversant  and  inwardly  familiar  with  the  censures  of  great  men 
that  did  discourse  of  these  things  daily  amongst  themselves.  Again, 
a  man  so  gracious  and  in  high  favour  with  the  Emperor,  as  Augustus 
often  called  him  his  witty  manling,  for  the  littleness  of  his  stature ; 
and,  if  we  may  trust  antiquity,  had  designed  him  for  a  secretary  of 
estate,  and  invited  him  to  the  palace,  which  he  modestly  prayed  off 
and  refused.  Horace  did  so  highly  esteem  Terence  his  comedies, 
as  he  ascribes  the  art  in  comedy  to  him  alone  among  the  Latins, 
and  joins  him  with  Menander. 

Now,  let  us  see  what  may  be  said  for  either,  to  defend  Horace 
his  judgment  to  posterity,  and  not  wholly  to  condemn  Plautus. 


COMEDY   AND   TRAGEDY 

The  parts  of  a  comedy  and  tragedy.  —  The  parts  of  a  comedy  are 
the  same  with  a  tragedy,  and  the  end  is  partly  the  same,  for  they 
both  delight,  and  teach;  the  comics  are  called  StSao-icaAoi  of  the 
Greeks  no  less  than  the  tragics.  Nor  is  the  moving  of  laughter 
always  the  end  of  comedy ;  that  is  rather  a  fowling  for  the  people's 
delight,  or  their  fooling.  For,  as  Aristotle  says  rightly,  the  moving 
of  laughter  is  a  fault  in  comedy,  a  kind  of  turpitude  that  depraves 
some  part  of  a  man's  nature  without  a  disease.  As  a  wry  face 
without  pain  moves  laughter,  or  a  deformed  vizard,  or  a  rude  clown 
dressed  in  a  lady's  habit  and  using  her  actions ;  we  dislike  and 
scorn  such  representations  which  made  the  ancient  philosophers 
ever  think  laughter  unfitting  in  a  wise  man.  And  this  induced 
Plato  to  esteem  of  Homer  as  a  sacrilegious  person,  because  he  pre- 
sented the  gods  sometimes  laughing.  As  also  it  is  divinely  said  of 
Aristotle,  that  to  seem  ridiculous  is  a  part  of  dishonesty,  and  foolish. 
So  that  what  either  in  the  words  or  sense  of  an  author,  or  in  the 
language  or  actions  of  men,  is  awry  or  depraved  doth  strangely 
stir  mean  affections,  and  provoke  for  the  most  part  to  laughter. 
And  therefore  it  was  clear  that  all  insolent  and  obscene  speeches, 
jests  upon  the  best  men,  injuries  to  particular  persons,  perverse  and 
sinister  sayings  and  the  rather  unexpected  in  the  old  comedy  did 
move  laughter,  especially  where  it  did  imitate  any  dishonesty ;  and 


THE  FABLE  131 

scurrility  came  forth  in  the  place  of  wit,  which,  who  understands 
the  nature  and  genius  of  laughter  cannot  but  perfectly  know. 

Of  which  Aristophanes  affords  an  ample  harvest,  having  not  only 
outgone  Plautus  or  any  other  in  that  kind,  but  expressed  all  the 
moods  and  figures  of  what  is  ridiculous  oddly.  In  short,  as  vinegar 
is  not  accounted  good  until  the  wine  be  corrupted,  so  jests  that  are 
true  and  natural  seldom  raise  laughter  with  the  beast,  the  multitude. 
They  love  nothing  that  is  right  and  proper.  The  farther  it  runs 
from  reason  or  possibility  with  them  the  better  it  is.  What  could 
have  made  them  laugh,  like  to  see  Socrates  presented,  that  example 
of  all  good  life,  honesty,  and  virtue,  to  have  him  hoisted  up  with  a 
pulley,  and  there  play  the  philosopher  in  a  basket ;  measure  how 
many  foot  a  flea  could  skip  geometrically,  by  a  just  scale,  and  edify 
the  people  from  the  engine  ?  This  was  theatrical  wit,  right  stage 
jesting,  and  relishing  a  playhouse,  invented  for  scorn  and  laughter ; 
whereas,  if  it  had  savoured  of  equity,  truth,  perspicuity,  and 
candour,  to  have  tasten  a  wise  or  a  learned  palate,  —  spit  it  out 
presently  !  this  is  bitter  and  profitable  :  this  instructs  and  would 
inform  us  !  what  need  we  know  anything,  that  are  nobly  born, 
more  than  a  horse-race,  or  a  hunting-match,  our  day  to  break  with 
citizens,  and  such  innate  mysteries  ?  This  is  truly  leaping  from 
the  stage  to  the  tumbril  again,  reducing  all  wit  to  the  original 
dung-cart. 

THE   FABLE 

OF  THE  MAGNITUDE  AND  COMPASS  OF  ANY  FABLE,  EPIC  OB 
DRAMATIC 

What  the  measure  of  a  fable  is.  —  The  fable  or  plot  of  a  poem 
defined.  —  The  epic  fable,  differing  from  the  dramatic.  —  To  the 
resolving  of  this  question  we  must  first  agree  in  the  definition  of 
the  fable.  The  fable  is  called  the  imitation  of  one  entire  and 
perfect  action,  whose  parts  are  so  joined  and  knit  together,  as 
nothing  in  the  structure  can  be  changed,  or  taken  away,  without 
impairing  or  troubling  the  whole,  of  which  there  is  a  proportionable 
magnitude  in  the  members.  As  for  example  :  if  a  man  would  build 
a  house,  he  would  first  appoint  a  place  to  build  it  in,  which  he 


132  BEN  JONSON 

would  define  within  certain  bounds.  So  in  the  constitution  of  a 
poem,  the  action  is  aimed  at  by  the  poet,  which  answers  place  in 
a  building,  and  that  action  hath  his  largeness,  compass,  and  pro- 
portion. But  as  a  court  or  king's  palace  requires  other  dimensions 
than  a  private  house,  so  the  epic  asks  a  magnitude  from  other  poems, 
since  what  is  place  in  the  one  is  action  in  the  other ;  the  difference 
is  in  space.  So  that  by  this  definition  we  conclude  the  fable  to  be 
the  imitation  of  one  perfect  and  entire  action,  as  one  perfect  and 
entire  place  is  required  to  a  building.  By  perfect,  we  understand 
that  to  which  nothing  is  wanting,  as  place  to  the  building  that  is 
raised,  and  action  to  the  fable  that  is  formed.  It  is  perfect,  perhaps 
not  for  a  court  or  king's  palace,  which  requires  a  greater  ground, 
but  for  the  structure  we  would  raise ;  so  the  space  of  the  action 
may  not  prove  large  enough  for  the  epic  fable,  yet  be  perfect  for 
the  dramatic,  and  whole. 

What  we  understand  by  whole.  —  Whole  we  call  that,  and  perfect, 
which  hath  a  beginning,  a  midst,  and  an  end.  So  the  place  of  any 
building  may  be  whole  and  entire  for  that  work,  though  too  little 
for  a  palace.  As  to  a  tragedy  or  a  comedy,  the  action  may  be 
convenient  and  perfect  that  would  not  fit  an  epic  poem  in  magnitude. 
So  a  lion  is  a  perfect  creature  in  himself,  though  it  be  less  than 
that  of  a  buffalo  or  a  rhinocerote.  They  differ  but  in  specie:  either 
in  the  kind  is  absolute ;  both  have  their  parts,  and  either  the  whole. 
Therefore,  as  in  every  body  so  in  every  action,  which  is  the  subject 
of  a  just  work,  there  is  required  a  certain  proportionable  greatness, 
neither  too  vast  nor  too  minute.  For  that  which  happens  to  the 
eyes  when  we  behold  a  body,  the  same  happens  to  the  memory 
when  we  contemplate  an  action.  I  look  upon  a  monstrous  giant, 
as  Tityus,  whose  body  covered  nine  acres  of  land,  and  mine  eye 
sticks  upon  every  part ;  the  whole  that  consists  of  those  parts  will 
never  be  taken  in  at  one  entire  view.  So  in  a  fable,  if  the  action 
be  too  great,  we  can  never  comprehend  the  whole  together  in  our 
imagination.  Again,  if  it  be  too  little,  there  ariseth  no  pleasure 
out  of  the  object ;  it  affords  the  view  no  stay ;  it  is  beheld,  and 
vanisheth  at  once.  As  if  we  should  look  upon  an  ant  or  pismire, 
the  parts  fly  the  sight,  and  the  whole  considered  is  almost  nothing. 


THE  FABLE  133 

The  same  happens  in  action,  which  is  the  object  of  memory,  as  the 
body  is  of  sight.  Too  vast  oppresseth  the  eyes,  and  exceeds  the 
memory ;  too  little  scarce  admits  either. 

What  [t's]  the  utmost  bound  of  a  fable.  —  Now  in  every  action  it 
behoves  the  poet  to  know  which  is  his  utmost  bound,  how  far  with 
fitness  and  a  necessary  proportion  he  may  produce  and  determine 
it ;  that  is,  till  either  good  fortune  change  into  the  worse,  or  the 
worse  into  the  better.  For  as  a  body  without  proportion  cannot  be 
goodly,  no  more  can  the  action,  either  in  comedy  or  tragedy,  with- 
out his  fit  bounds.  And  every  bound,  for  the  nature  of  the  subject, 
is  esteemed  the  best  that  is  largest,  till  it  can  increase  no  more ; 
so  it  behoves  the  action  in  tragedy  or  comedy  to  be  let  grow  till  the 
necessity  ask  a  conclusion ;  wherein  two  things  are  to  be  considered : 
first,  that  it  exceed  not  the  compass  of  one  day ;  next,  that  there 
be  place  left  for  digression  and  art.  For  the  episodes  and  digress- 
ions in  a  fable  are  the  same  that  household  stuff  and  other  furni- 
ture are  in  a  house.  And  so  far  form  the  measure  and  extent  of  a 
fable  dramatic. 

What  \_we  understand]  by  one  and  entire.  —  Now  that  it  should  be 
one  and  entire.  One  is  considerable  two  ways  ;  either  as  it  is  only 
separate,  and  by  itself,  or  as  being  composed  of  many  parts,  it  begins 
to  be  one  as  those  parts  grow  or  are  wrought  together.  That  it 
should  be  one  the  first  way  alone,  and  by  itself,  no  man  that  hath 
tasted  letters  ever  would  say,  especially  having  required  before  a 
just  magnitude  and  equal  proportion  of  the  parts  in  themselves. 
Neither  of  which  can  possibly  be,  if  the  action  be  single  and 
separate,  not  composed  of  parts,  which  laid  together  in  themselves, 
with  an  equal  and  fitting  proportion,  tend  to  the  same  end ;  which 
thing  out  of  antiquity  itself  hath  deceived  many,  and  more  this 
day  it  doth  deceive. 

So  many  there  be  of  old  that  have  thought  the  action  of  one  man 
to  be  one,  as  of  Hercules,  Theseus,  Achilles,  Ulysses,  and  other 
heroes ;  which  is  both  foolish  and  false,  since  by  one  and  the  same 
person  many  things  may  be  severally  done  which  cannot  fitly  be 
referred  or  joined  to  the  same  end :  which  not  only  the  excellent 
tragic  poets,  but  the  best  masters  of  the  epic,  Homer  and  Virgil, 


134  BEN  JOXSON 

saw.  For  though  the  argument  of  an  epic  poem  be  far  more  diffused 
and  poured  out  than  that  of  tragedy,  yet  Virgil,  writing  of  ^Eneas, 
hath  pretermitted  many  things.  He  neither  tells  how  he  was  born, 
how  brought  up,  how  he  fought  with  Achilles,  how  he  was  snatched 
out  of  the  battle  by  Venus ;  but  that  one  thing,  how  he  came  into 
Italy,  he  prosecutes  in  twelve  books.  The  rest  of  his  journey,  his 
error  by  sea,  the  sack  of  Troy,  are  put  not  as  the  argument  of 
the  work,  but  episodes  of  the  argument.  So  Homer  laid  by  many 
things  of  Ulysses,  and  handled  no  more  than  he  saw  tended  to  one 
and  the  same  end. 

Contrary  to  which,  and  foolishly,  those  poets  did,  whom  the 
philosopher  taxeth,  of  whom  one  gathered  all  the  actions  of  Theseus, 
another  put  all  the  labours  of  Hercules  in  one  work.  So  did  he 
whom  Juvenal  mentions  in  the  beginning,  "hoarse  Codrus,"  that 
recited  a  volume  compiled,  which  he  called  his  Theseid,  not  yet 
finished,  to  the  great  trouble  both  of  his  hearers  and  himself; 
amongst  which  there  were  many  parts  had  no  coherence  nor  kind- 
red one  with  other,  so  far  they  were  from  being  one  action,  one 
fable.  For  as  a  house,  consisting  of  divers  materials,  becomes  one 
structure  and  one  dwelling,  so  an  action,  composed  of  divers  parts, 
may  become  one  fable,  epic  or  dramatic.  For  example,  in  a  tragedy, 
look  upon  Sophocles  his  Ajax :  Ajax,  deprived  of  Achilles's  armour, 
which  he  hoped  from  the  suffrage  of  the  Greeks,  disdains,  and, 
growing  impatient  of  the  injury,  rageth,  and  turns  mad.  In  that 
humour  he  doth  many  senseless  things,  and  at  last  falls  upon  the 
Grecian  flock  and  kills  a  great  ram  for  Ulysses :  returning  to  his 
sense,  he  grows  ashamed  of  the  scorn,  and  kills  himself ;  and  is  by 
the  chiefs  of  the  Greeks  forbidden  burial  These  things  agree  and 
hang  together,  not  as  they  were  done,  but  as  seeming  to  be  done, 
which  made  the  action  whole,  entire,  and  absolute. 

The  conclusion  concerning  the  whole,  and  the  parts.  —  Which  are 
episodes.  —  For  the  whole,  as  it  consisteth  of  parts,  so  without  all 
the  parts  it  is  not  the  whole ;  and  to  make  it  absolute  is  required 
not  only  the  parts,  but  such  parts  as  are  true.  For  a  part  of  the 
whole  was  true,  which,  if  you  take  away,  you  either  change  the 
whole  or  it  is  not  the  whole.  For  if  it  be  such  a  part,  as,  being 


THE  FABLE  135 

present  or  absent,  nothing  concerns  the  whole,  it  cannot  be  called 
a  part  of  the  whole ;  and  such  are  the  episodes,  of  which  hereafter. 
For  the  present  here  is  one  example :  the  single  combat  of  Ajax 
with  Hector,  as  it  is  at  large  described  in  Homer,  nothing  belongs 
to  this  Ajax  of  Sophocles. 

You  admire  no  poems  but  such  as  run  like  a  brewer's  cart  upon 
the  stones,  hobbling : 

Et,  quse  per  salebras,  altaque  saxa  cadunt, 
Actius  et  quidquid  Pacuviusque  vomunt. 
Attonitusque  legis  terrai,  frugiferai. 


XVII 

SELECTIONS    FROM    THE    SPANISH    CRITICS    OF   THE 
SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY 

(The  importance  of  the  Spanish  critics  of  this  period  is,  that  they,  alone 
of  Europeans  out  of  England,  had  a  living  and  vigorous  "  Romantic " 
literature  in  their  drama.  They  met  the  discrepancies  of  this  from  the 
neo-classic  norm  —  which  they,  like  others,  accepted  from  the  Italians  —  in 
a  rather  illogical  and  half-hearted  manner,  but  they  did  try  to  meet  them. 
If  we  could  accept  Bolingbroke's  assertion,  reported  by  Spence,  that  Dryden 
confessed  his  indebtedness  to  Spanish  critics,  they  would  have  a  fresh  interest 
for  us ;  but  I  have  been  unable  to  find  any  sufficient  corroboration  of  this 
in  Dryden  himself.  The  books  here  quoted,  especially  the  Cigarrales  of 
Tirso  de  Molina,  are  mostly  very  rare.  Only  Lope  and  Pinciano  exist  in 
modern  reprints ;  the  other  passages  may  be  found  in  Senor  Men6ndez  y 
Pelayo's  invaluable  Historia  de  las  Ideas  Esteticas  en  Espana,  ed.  2,  Madrid, 
in  progress.) 

A.     TIRSO  DE  MOLINA   (1624).     THE  LIBERTY  OF  DRAMA 

After  arguing  that  the  enforced  inclusion  in  a  single  day  of  all 
circumstances  necessary  (to  comedy  more  particularly)  involves  a 
greater,  not  a  lesser  loss  of  verisimilitude  than  the  breach  of  the 
unities,1  and  (even  more  powerfully)  from  the  unquestioned  diversity 
of  natural,  to  the  just  allowable  diversity  of  artificial,  kinds,  Tirso 
concludes  by  asking  why  comedy  may  not  vary  the  laws  of  those  who 
have  gone  before,  and  industriously  graft  the  tragic  upon  the  comic, 
extracting  a  pleasant  mixture  from  those  two  opposite  forms  of 
poetry,  and,  by  taking  part  of  both,  introduce  personages  as  grave 
as  those  of  the  one  and  as  jocose  and  laughable  as  those  of  the 

1  The  creator  of  Don  Juan,  without  knowing  it,  throws  all  Sir  Philip  Sidney's 
argument  (u.  sup.,  p.  97)  into  hopeless  rout  by  asking  quietly  "whether  it  is 
reasonable  that  a  character  who  begins  to  pay  his  court  in  the  morning  should 
set  up  housekeeping  with  the  lady  at  night "  ? 

136 


ALFONSO  SANCHEZ?  137 

other  ?  He  ends  with  an  ingenious  and  (since  they  were  crafts  fellows') 
very  generous  defence  of  Lope  de  Vega,  who,  in  the  teeth  of  his  own 
practice,  had  in  his  Arte  Nuevo  de  Hacer  Comedias  stigmatized  the 
national  drama  as  barbarous  and  popular ;  and  represents  him  as 
speaking  in  natural  modesty  and  self-depreciation. 

Cigarrales  de  Toledo  (Madrid  1624)  ;  quoted  at  length  by 
Meue'ndez  y  Pelayo,  op.  cit.  sup.,  iii.  457-460. 

Even  before  Tirso  the  national  liberty  of  unity-breaking,  and  of  the 
practice  of  tragicomedy,  had  been  defended,  with  similar  apologies  for 
Lope,  as  by  the  following: 

B.     ALFONSO  SANCHEZ?  (1618).     THE  REAL   "RULE" 

We  have  an  "  art "  ;  we  have  "  precepts  "  which  are  binding  on 
us.  —  And  the  principal  precept  is  —  To  Imitate  Nature  :  for  which 
reason  the  works  of  poets  express  the  nature,  the  customs,  and  the 
spirit  of  the  age  in  which  they  are  written.  ...  If  the  Spanish 
Drama  were  to  adjust  itself  to  the  rules  and  laws  of  the  ancients, 
it  would  proceed  against  nature,  and  against  the  fundamentals  of 
poetry. 

Quoted  in  M.  y  P.  iii.  448-450,  where  quotations  in  the  same  sense  from 
a  still  earlier  writer,  Ricardo  de  Turia  (1616),  will  be  found. 

The  formal  critics  of  Spain,  however,  had  kept  closer  to  the  Italians, 
and  to  Aristotle  the  master  of  the  Italians ;  and  it  was  doubtless  in  a  sort 
of  fear  of  them  that  Lope  had  admitted  the  "  barbarousness "  of  the 
national  theatre.  Yet  there  were  jets  of  independence  even  in  these 
preceptistas  until  late  in  the  17th  century.  In  one  of  the  earliest  and 
best  of  them  we  read  as  follows : 

C.     PINCIANO   (1596).     UNIVERSALITY  OF  POETRY 

Poetry  has  no  particular  object,  but  rather  the  entire  body  of  all 
arts  and  sciences ;  which  it  embraces,  and  indeed  overpasses,  inas- 
much as  it  extends  to  things  and  thoughts  that  never  were,  but 
might  have  been. 

M.  y  P.   iii.   332.      Filusofia    Antigua   Poetica   p.  133,   ed.  Peiia 
(Valladolid  1894). 


138      SPANISH  CRITICS  OF   SEVENTEENTH   CENTURY 

But  Pinciano  thought  the  Fable  the  "  soul "  and  the  diction  merely  the 
"body"  of  poetry — in  the  orthodox  Classic-Italian  way;  and  though  he 
does  not  deny  diversity  of  action,  it  must  be  only  as  different  members 
.make  one  body.  Again  consider  the  following : 

D.     GONZALES   DE   SALAS  (1633).     ON   THE  LIBERTY  OF  POETRY 

It  is  not  to  be  thought  that  we  are  necessarily  bound  to  the  strict 
ancient  precepts.  A  man's  wits  are  free  to  alter  the  rules  of  art  — 
always  taking  his  stand  on  the  laws  of  Nature.  {The  Spaniards 
say  better  N/aturaleza,  "naturalness,"  which  word  would  have  saved 
French  and  English  critics  from  many  slips.)  .  .  .  Art  may  be 
altered  and  improved  according  to  the  mutation  of  ages  and  the 
difference  of  tastes  .  .  .  etc.,  etc.  ^  „  p  ^  366 


XVIII 

SELECTIONS   FROM   THE   FRENCH   CRITICS   OF   THE 
SEVENTEENTH   CENTURY 

(The  whole  of  this  volume — and  much  more  —  might  easily  be  filled 
with  extracts  from  this  source.  The  following,  however,  from  Boileau, 
Rapin,  and  Le  Bossu,  will  show  sufficiently  the  tenets  which  had  most 
power  in  France  itself  and  over  the  rest  of  Europe.) 

A.    BOILEAU.    PASSAGES  FROM  L'ART  PO&TIQUE  (1669-1674). 
"GOOD  SENSE." 

Whatsoever  subject  we  treat,  be  it  pleasant  or  sublime,  let  Good 
Sense  always  keep  company  with  our  rhymes.1  Any  apparent  dis- 
cord between  them  is  an  absurdity  :  rhyme  is  but  a  slave  and  must 
obey.  When  you  once  set  yourself  to  seek  it  wisely,  the  under- 
standing easily  gets  in  the  habit  of  finding  it ;  it  submits  without 
difficulty  to  the  yoke  of  Reason,  and,  far  from  hampering  her,  does 
service  and  brings  wealth.  But  when  it  is  left  uncontrolled,  it 
rebels,  and  sense  has  to  run  after  to  catch  it  up.  Love  Reason, 
then :  let  your  writings  always  borrow  from  her  at  once  their 
brilliancy  and  their  value.  Too  many,  carried  away  by  insensate 
excitement,  fetch  their  thoughts  far  from  plain  sense :  they  would 
think  themselves  degraded  if,  in  their  monstrous 2  verses,  they  gave 
a  thought  which  another  had  given  before  them.  Let  us  avoid 
these  excesses ;  let  us  leave  to  Italy  the  glittering  folly  of  these 
sham  diamonds.  Everything  must  tend  towards  Good  Sense. 

i.  27-45. 

1  It  is  perhaps  well  to  keep  "  rhymes  "  :  but  it  is  clear  that  Boileau  was  also 
thinking  of  "verse"  in  general. 

2  This  became  a  catchword  with  the  school  down  to  La  Harpe.     Beauty  must 
be  "regularly"  beautiful. 

139 


140       FRENCH  CRITICS  OF   SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY 

In  good  verses  let  the  sense  invariably  divide  the  words  so  as  to 
make  a  break  at  the  hemistich,  and  mark  the  pause  there. 

i.  105-106. 

Never  offer  the  spectator  anything  incredible :  even  the  truth 
may  sometimes  seem  to  lack  the  appearance  of  truth.  An  unreason- 
able marvel  is  without  attraction  for  me :  the  mind  is  not  moved 
by  what  it  does  not  believe.  jj  47-50. 

Ah !  how  absurd  is  the  design  of  an  ignorant  poet  who,  out  of  so 
many  heroes,  chooses  "  Childebrand "  !  The  harsh  or  eccentric 
sound  of  a  single  name  will  often  make  an  entire  poem  seem 
burlesque  or  barbarous.  ^  241-244. 

Authors  !  lend  an  ear  to  my  instructions.  Would  you  have  your 
abundant  invention  please  ?  Then  let  your  Muse,  fertile  in  learned 
teachings,  everywhere  join  the  solid  and  useful  with  the  agreeable. 
A  sensible  reader  shuns  vain  amusement,  and  wishes  to  make  his 
very  recreations  profitable.  jy  85-90. 

Let  Nature,  then,  be  your  only  study.  ^  359 

We  must  never  separate  ourselves  from  Nature.  ^  4^4. 

B.     RAPIN   (1672).     REFLEXIONS   SUR  LA  POETIQUE 

It  is  by  no  means  true  that,  as  most  people  think,  some  madness 
ought  to  enter  into  the  character  of  Poetry.1  *  v 

It  is  only  for  the  purpose  of  being  useful  that  Poetry  ought  to 
be  agreeable :  pleasure  is  only  a  means  which  she  uses  for  the  end 
of  profit.  *  x 

I  make  no  pretence  of  justifying  the  necessity,  justice,  and  truth 
of  these  rules  [of  Aristotle\  in  long  discourse.  ...  I  take  all  that 
for  granted.  I  only  say  that,  if  you  consider  them  well,  you  will 
find  that  they  are  merely  made  to  methodize  Nature,  to  follow  her 

1  This  is  of  great  importance,  because  the  doctrine  of  Furor  Poeticus  had 
been  largely  admitted  by  the  critics  of  the  16th  century,  and  of  the  earlier  1 7th, 
as  a  sort  of  escapement,  or  easement,  to  the  rigid  "rule"  system.  Rapin,  as 
an  unflinching  "  Good  Sense  "  man,  bars  it  at  once. 


LE  BOSSU  141 

step  by  step.  ...  If  there  is  not  unity  of  place,  time,  and  action,  in 
poems,  there  is  no  verisimilitude.  .  .  .  The  Poetic  of  Horace,  which 
is  merely  an  interpretation  of  that  of  Aristotle,  sufficiently  shows 
the  necessity  of  subjecting  oneself  to  rules.  o  xii 

C.    LE  BOSSU   (d.  1680).     TRAITE  DU  POEME  EPIQUE 

Although  it  is  possible  that  Reason  might  have  prescribed  the 
rules  of  Poetic  beforehand,  it  is  undeniable  that  the  invention  of 
poets,  and  the  choice  which  it  has  pleased  them  to  make,  have  given 
Poetry  its  actual  matter  and  form.  It  is,  therefore,  in  the  excel- 
lent works  of  the  Ancients  that  we  must  seek  the  foundations  of  this 
art,  and  we  must  limit  ourselves  to  those  to  whom  all  others  have 
given  the  glory,  either  of  having  most  happily  practised  it,  or  of 
having  most  judiciously  collected  and  laid  down  its  rules.  The 
Greeks  and  the  Latins  have  given  us  examples  of  both  kinds. 
Aristotle  and  Horace  have  left  Rules,  which  have  made  all  the 
learned  hold  them  for  the  Masters  of  the  Art  Poetic :  and  the 
poems  of  Homer  and  Virgil  are,  by  the  consent  of  all  ages,  the  com- 
pletest  models  that  have  ever  appeared  in  this  style  of  writing. 
So  that,  if  ever  just  and  great  authority  has  been  able  to  give  laws 
and  rules  to  any  art,  these  four  persons  have  certainly  possessed 
that  authority  in  its  entirety  as  regards  Epic,  which  is  the  only 
kind  of  Poetry  of  which  we  shall  here  speak. 

It  is  true  that  the  men  of  our  time  may  have  wit,  even  as  the 
Ancients  had  it,  and  that  in  matters  which  depend  on  choice  and 
invention,  they  also  may  have  just  and  happy  imaginations.  But 
it  would  be  unjust  to  maintain  that  the  new  Rules  destroy  those 
of  our  earlier  masters,  or  that  they  ought  to  put  to  condemnation 
the  work  of  those  who  could  not  foresee  our  caprices,  nor  suit 
ourselves  to  the  genius  of  persons  who  were  to  be  born  in  other 
ages,  in  other  communities,  under  a  religion  quite  different  from 
theirs,  and  with  manners,  customs,  and  languages  quite  unconnected. 
As  therefore  I  have  not  undertaken  this  work  to  educate  poets  in 
the  manner  of  to-day,  with  which  I  am  not  sufficiently  acquainted, 
but  only  as  a  foundation  for  my  design  of  commenting  on  Virgil's 
jEneid,  I  need  not  dwell  on  what  has  been  invented  in  these  late 


142      FRENCH  CRITICS  OF  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY 

times.  I  shall  not  easily  be  persuaded  that  the  ideas  of  some 
modern  writers  furnish  a  universal  reason,  and  a  common  notion, 
which  Nature  ought  to  have  put  in  Virgil's  head.  But,  leaving 
posterity  to  decide  whether  these  novelties  have  been  well  or  ill 
imagined,  I  shall  only  dwell  on  what  I  think  to  find  in  Homer,  in 
Aristotle,  and  in  Horace.  I  shall  interpret  these  each  by  the  others, 
and  Virgil  by  all  three,  as  having  had  one  single  genius  and  one 
single  idea  of  Epic  Poesy.1  Bk.  I  ch.  i. 

1  Le  Bossu  has  the  reputation  of  a  mere  hide-bound  pedant.  It  is  possible 
that  the  latter  part  of  this  passage  is  merely  ironic.  But  it  is  fair  to  him  to 
point  out  that,  with  its  inevitable  counterpart,  it  furnishes  a  really  complete 
critical  standpoint.  If  the  moderns  are  not  to  prescribe  to  Virgil,  Virgil  must 
not  prescribe  to  the  moderns.  But  the  age  looked  only  at  the  earlier  part ;  and 
a  famous  passage  of  Pope  (v.  inf.)  is  much  more  inspired  by  Le  Bossu  than  by 
anything  to  be  found  totidem  verbis  in  Boileau  or  Ilapin. 


XIX 

DRYDEN 

I.     RHYME   AND   BLANK   VERSE 

(The  following,  Dryden's  earliest  critical  deliverance,  in  the  Epistle  Dedi- 
catory of  the  Rival  Ladies,  1664,  already  contains  the  three  main  notes  of 
his  criticism :  (1)  the  occasional  slips  of  fact,  such  as  "  Queen  Gorboduc  " 
and  the  statement  that  the  play  is  in  rhyme ;  (2)  the  ingenious  and  almost 
passionate,  but  temporary,  engouement  for  particular  theses,  views,  sides  of 
criticism — as  here  for  rhymed  drama;  (3)  the  wide,  synoptic,  appreciative, 
really  historic  and  really  literary,  savouring  of  literature,  in  which  no  earlier 
critic  had  approached  and  in  which  few  later  have  surpassed  him.1) 

I  here  present  you,  my  lord,  with  that  in  print,  which  you  had 
the  goodness  not  to  dislike  upon  the  stage ;  and  account  it  happy 
to  have  met  you  here  in  England ;  it  being,  at  best,  like  small 
wines,  to  be  drunk  out  upon  the  place,  and  has  not  body  enough  to 
endure  the  sea.  I  know  not  whether  I  have  been  so  careful  of  the 
plot  and  language  as  I  ought ;  but,  for  the  latter,  I  have  endeav- 
oured to  write  English,  as  near  as  I  could  distinguish  it  from  the 
tongue  of  pedants,  and  that  of  affected  travellers.  Only  I  am  sorry, 
that  (speaking  so  noble  a  language  as  we  do)  we  have  not  a  more 
certain  measure  of  it,  as  they  have  in  France,  where  they  have  an 
Academy  erected  for  that  purpose,  and  endowed  with  large  privi- 
leges by  the  present  king.  I  wish  we  might  at  length  leave  to 
borrow  words  from  other  nations,  which  is  now  a  wantonness  in 
us,  not  a  necessity ;  but  so  long  as  some  affect  to  speak  them,  there 
will  not  want  others,  who  will  have  the  boldness  to  write  them. 

1  Nearly  the  whole  of  Dryden's  criticism  will  be  found  admirably  edited  by 
Professor  W.  P.  Ker  in  2  vols.,  Essays  of  John  Dryden,  Oxford  1900  ;  the  whole 
is  in  the  present  editor's  revision  of  Scott's  Dryden,  18  vols.,  Edinburgh  1881- 
1893.  Some  half  dozen  reprints  of  the  Dramatic  Poesy  (separate  or  with  addi- 
tions) have  appeared  lately. 

143 


144  DRYDEN 

But  I  fear,  lest,  defending  the  received  words,  I  shall  be  accused 
for  following  the  new  way,  I  mean,  of  writing  scenes  in  verse. 
Though,  to  speak  properly,  it  is  not  so  much  a  new  way  amongst 
us,  as  an  old  way  new  revived  ;  for,  many  years  before  Shakespeare's 
plays,  was  the  tragedy  of  Queen  Gorboduc,  in  English  verse,  written 
by  that  famous  Lord  Buckhurst,  afterwards  Earl  of  Dorset,  and 
progenitor  to  that  excellent  person,  who  (as  he  inherits  his  soul 
and  title)  I  wish  may  inherit  his  good  fortune.  But,  supposing 
our  countrymen  had  not  received  this  writing  till  of  late ;  shall  we 
oppose  ourselves  to  the  most  polished  and  civilized  nations  of 
Europe  ?  Shall  we,  with  the  same  singularity,  oppose  the  world  in 
this,  as  most  of  us  do  in  pronouncing  Latin  ?  Or  do  we  desire  that 
the  brand,  which  Barclay  has  (I  hope  unjustly)  laid  upon  the  Eng- 
lish, should  still  continue  ?  Angli  suos  ac  sua  omnia  impense  miran- 
tur  ;  cceteras  nationes  despectui  habent.  All  the  Spanish  and  Italian 
tragedies  I  have  yet  seen  are  writ  in  rhyme.  For  the  French,  I 
do  not  name  them,  because  it  is  the  fate  of  our  countrymen  to  admit 
little  of  theirs  among  us,  but  the  basest  of  their  men,  the  extrava- 
gancies of  their  fashions,  and  the  frippery  of  their  merchandise. 
Shakespeare  (who,  with  some  errors  not  to  be  avoided  in  that  age, 
had  undoubtedly  a  larger  soul  of  poesy  than  ever  any  of  our 
nation)  was  the  first  who,  to  shun  the  pains  of  continual  rhym- 
ing, invented  that  kind  of  writing  which  we  call  blank  verse,  but 
the  French,  more  properly,  prose  mesure  ;  into  which  the  English 
tongue  so  naturally  slides,  that,  in  writing  prose,  it  is  hardly  to  be 
avoided.  And  therefore,  I  admire  some  men  should  perpetually 
stumble  in  a  way  so  easy,  and  inverting  the  order  of  their  words, 
constantly  close  their  lines  with  verbs,  which  though  commended 
sometimes  in  writing  Latin,  yet  we  were  whipt  at  Westminster  if 
we  used  it  twice  together.  I  knew  some,  who,  if  they  were  to  write 
in  blank  verse,  Sir,  I  ask  your  pardon,  would  think  it  sounded 
more  heroically  to  write,  Sir,  I  your  pardon  ask.  I  should  judge 
him  to  have  little  command  of  English,  whom  the  necessity  of  a 
rhyme  should  force  often  upon  this  rock  ;  though  sometimes  it 
cannot  easily  be  avoided ;  and  indeed  this  is  the  only  inconvenience 
with  which  rhyme  can  be  charged.  This  is  that  which  makes  them 
say,  rhyme  is  not  natural,  it  being  only  so,  when  the  poet  either 


RHYME  AND  BLANK  VERSE  145 

makes  a  vicious  choice  of  words,  or  places  them,  for  rhyme  sake, 
so  unnaturally  as  no  man  would  in  ordinary  speaking ;  but  when 
it  is  so  judiciously  ordered,  that  the  first  word  in  the  verse  seems 
to  beget  the  second,  and  that  the  next,  till  that  becomes  the  last 
word  in  the  line,  which,  in  the  negligence  of  prose,  would  be  so ; 
it  must  then  be  granted,  rhyme  has  all  the  advantages  of  prose, 
besides  its  own.  But  the  excellence  and  dignity  of  it  were  never 
fully  known  till  Mr.  Waller  taught  it ;  he  first  made  writing  easily 
an  art ;  first  showed  us  to  conclude  the  sense,  most  commonly  in 
distichs,  which,  in  the  verse  of  those  before  him,  runs  on  for  so 
many  lines  together,  that  the  reader  is  out  of  breath  to  overtake  it. 
This  sweetness  of  Mr.  Waller's  lyric  poesy  was  afterwards  followed 
in  the  epic  by  Sir  John  Denham,  in  his  Cooper's  Hill,  a  poem  which, 
your  lordship  knows,  for  the  majesty  of  the  style,  is,  and  ever  will 
be,  the  exact  standard  of  good  writing.  But  if  we  owe  the  inven- 
tion of  it  to  Mr.  Waller,  we  are  acknowledging  for  the  noblest  use 
of  it  to  Sir  William  Davenant,  who  at  once  brought  it  upon  the 
stage,  and  made  it  perfect,  in  the  Siege  of  Rhodes. 

The  advantages  which  rhyme  has  over  blank  verse  are  so  many, 
that  it  were  lost  time  to  name  them.  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  in  his 
Defence  of  Poesy,  gives  us  one,  which,  in  my  opinion,  is  not  the 
least  considerable ;  I  mean  the  help  it  brings  to  memory,  which 
rhyme  so  knits  up,  by  the  affinity  of  sounds,  that,  by  remembering 
the  last  word  in  one  line,  we  often  call  to  mind  both  the  verses. 
Then,  in  the  quickness  of  repartees  (which  in  discoursive  scenes 
fall  very  often),  it  has  so  particular  a  grace,  and  is  so  aptly  suited 
to  them,  that  the  sudden  smartness'  of  the  answer,  and  the  sweet- 
ness of  the  rhyme,  set  off  the  beauty  of  each  other.  But  that 
benefit  which  I  consider  most  in  it,  because  I  have  not  seldom 
found  it,  is,  that  it  bounds  and  circumscribes  the  fancy.  For 
imagination  in  a  poet  is  a  faculty  so  wild  and  lawless,  that,  like  an 
high-ranging  spaniel,  it  must  have  clogs  tied  to  it,  lest  it  outrun 
the  judgment.  The  great  easiness  of  blank  verse  renders  the  poet 
too  luxuriant ;  he  is  tempted  to  say  many  things,  which  might 
better  be  omitted,  or  at  least  shut  up  in  fewer  words ;  but  when 
the  difficulty  of  artful  rhyming  is  interposed,  where  the  poet  com- 
monly confines  his  sense  to  his  couplet,  and  must  contrive  that 


146  DRYDEN 

sense  into  such  words,  that  the  rhyme  shall  naturally  follow  them, 
not  they  the  rhyme ;  the  fancy  then  gives  leisure  to  the  judgment 
to  come  in,  which,  seeing  so  heavy  a  tax  imposed,  is  ready  to  cut 
off  all  unnecessary  expenses.  This  last  consideration  has  already 
answered  an  objection  which  some  have  made,  that  rhyme  is  only 
an  embroidery  of  sense,  to  make  that,  which  is  ordinary  in  itself, 
pass  for  excellent  with  less  examination.  But  certainly,  that, 
which  most  regulates  the  fancy,  and  gives  the  judgment  its  busiest 
employment,  is  like  to  bring  forth  the  richest  and  clearest  thoughts. 
The  poet  examines  that  most,  which  he  produceth  with  the  greatest 
leisure,  and  which  he  knows,  must  pass  the  severest  test  of  the 
audience,  because  they  are  aptest  to  have  it  ever  in  their  memory  ; 
as  the  stomach  makes  the  best  concoction,  when  it  strictly  embraces 
the  nourishment,  and  takes  account  of  every  little  particle  as  it 
passes  through.  But,  as  the  best  medicines  may  lose  their  virtue, 
by  being  ill  applied,  so  is  it  with  verse,  if  a  tit  subject  be  not  chosen 
for  it.  Neither  must  the  argument  alone,  but  the  characters  and 
persons  be  great  and  noble ;  otherwise  (as  Scaliger  says  of  Claudian) 
the  poet  will  be  ignobiliore  materia  depressus.  The  scenes,  which, 
in  my  opinion,  most  commend  it,  are  those  of  argumentation  and 
discourse,  on  the  result  of  which  the  doing  or  not  doing  some 
considerable  action  should  depend. 


II.     FROM  THE   ESSAY   OF    DRAMATIC    POESY 

Strictly  speaking,  almost  the  whole  of  this  famous  essay  should  —  at 
least  might  —  find  place  here.  But  it  is  now  far  more  readily  accessible 
than  it  was  even  a  few  years  ago  —  indeed,  more  so  than  many  much  later 
documents ;  and  it  will  therefore  be  easy,  for  those  who  wish,  to  connect 
these  following  apices  of  its  criticism  with  their  lower  slopes. 

A.     Two  BAD  POETS a 

"I  could  wish  with  all  my  heart,"  replied  Crites,  "that  many 
whom  we  know  were  as  bountifully  thanked  upon  the  same  condi- 
tion, that  they  would  never  trouble  us  again.  For  amongst  others, 

1  These  two  unfortunates  were,  the  first  apparently  Wild  of  the  Her  Boreale, 
the  second  possibly  Flecknoe. 


FROM  THE  ESSAY  OF  DRAMATIC  POESY  147 

I  have  a  mortal  apprehension  of  two  poets,  whom  this  victory, 
with  the  help  of  both  her  wings,  will  never  be  able  to  escape." 
" '  T  is  easy  to  guess  whom  you  intend,"  said  Lisideius  ;  "  and  with- 
out naming  them,  I  ask  you,  if  one  of  them  does  not  perpetually 
pay  us  with  clenches  upon  words,  and  a  certain  clownish  kind 
of  raillery?  if  now  and  then  he  does  not  offer  at  a  catachresis  or 
Clevelandism,  wresting  and  torturing  a  word  into  another  meaning: 
in  fine,  if  he  be  not  one  of  those  whom  the  French  would  call  un 
mauvais  buff  on;  one  who  is  so  much  a  well-wilier  to  the  satire,  that 
he  intends  at  least  to  spare  no  man ;  and  though  he  cannot  strike  a 
blow  to  hurt  any,  yet  he  ought  to  be  punished  for  the  malice 
of  the  action,  as  our  witches  are  justly  hanged,  because  they  think 
themselves  to  be  such ;  and  suffer  deservedly  for  believing  they  did 
mischief,  because  they  meant  it."  "You  have  described  him," 
said  Crites,  "  so  exactly,  that  I  am  afraid  to  come  after  you  with 
my  other  extremity  of  poetry :  he  is  one  of  those  who,  having  had 
some  advantage  of  education  and  converse,  knows  better  than 
the  other  what  a  poet  should  be,  but  puts  it  into  practice  more 
unluckily  than  any  man;  his  style  and  matter  are  everywhere 
alike ;  he  is  the  most  calm,  peaceable  writer  you  ever  read :  he 
never  disquiets  your  passions  with  the  least  concernment,  but  still 
leaves  you  in  as  even  a  temper  as  he  found  you ;  he  is  a  very 
leveller  in  poetry :  he  creeps  along  with  ten  little  words  in  every 
line,  and  helps  out  his  numbers  with  For  to,  and  Unto,  and  all  the 
pretty  expletives  he  can  find,  till  he  drags  them  to  the  end  of 
another  line,  while  the  sense  is  left  tired  half  way  behind  it : 
he  doubly  starves  all  his  verses,  first  for  want  of  thought,  and 
then  of  expression ;  his  poetry  neither  has  wit  in  it,  nor  seems  to 
have  it ;  like  him  in  Martial. 

Pauper  videri  Cinna  vult,  et  est  pauper. 

"  He  affects  plainness,  to  cover  his  want  of  imagination :  when 
he  writes  the  serious  way,  the  highest  flight  of  his  fancy  is  some 
miserable  antithesis,  or  seeming  contradiction ;  and  in  the  comic 
he  is  still  reaching  at  some  thin  conceit,  the  ghost  of  a  jest, 
and  that  too  flies  before  him,  never  to  be  caught ;  these  swallows 
which  we  see  before  us  on  the  Thames  are  the  just  resemblance  of 


148  DRYDEN 

his  wit :  you  may  observe  how  near  the  water  they  stoop,  how 
many  proffers  they  make  to  dip,  and  yet  how  seldom  they  touch  it ; 
and  when  they  do,  it  is  but  the  surface :  they  skim  over  it  but 
to  catch  a  gnat,  and  then  mount  into  the  air  and  leave  it."  "Well, 
gentlemen,"  said  Eugenius,  "  you  may  speak  your  pleasure  of  these 
authors ;  but  though  I  and  some  few  more  about  the  town  may 
give  you  a  peaceable  hearing,  yet  assure  yourselves,  there  are 
multitudes  who  would  think  you  malicious  and  them  injured; 
especially  him  whom  you  first  described ;  he  is  the  very  Withers l 
of  the  city :  they  have  bought  more  editions  of  his  works  than 
would  serve  to  lay  under  all  their  pies  at  the  Lord  Mayor's 
Christmas." 

B.     THE  ADVANTAGES  OF  TRAGICOMEDY  OR  MINGLED  Purr2 

"  I  grant  the  French  have  performed  what  was  possible  on 
the  ground-work  of  the  Spanish  plays ;  what  was  pleasant  before, 
they  have  made  regular ;  but  there  is  not  above  one  good  play 
to  be  writ  on  all  those  plots  ;  they  are  too  much  alike  to  please 
often ;  which  we  need  not  the  experience  of  our  own  stage  to 
justify.  As  for  their  new  way  of  mingling  mirth  with  serious 
plot,  I  do  not,  with  Lisideius,  condemn  the  thing,  though  I  cannot 
approve  their  manner  of  doing  it :  he  tells  us,  we  cannot  so  speedily 
recollect  ourselves  after  a  scene  of  great  passion  and  concernment, 
.as  to  pass  to  another  of  mirth  and  humour,  and  to  enjoy  it  with 
any  relish :  but  why  should  he  imagine  the  soul  of  man  more 
heavy  than  his  senses  ?  Does  not  the  eye  pass  from  an  unpleasant 
object  to  a  pleasant  in  a  much  shorter  time  than  is  required  to 
this?  and  does  not  the  unpleasantness  of  the  first  commend 

1  It  must  be  remembered  that  George  Wither  had  for  many  years  been 
pouring  out  the  most  absolute  rubbish,  possessing  no  resemblance  whatever  to 
his  charming  early  work. 

2  Dryden's  argument  for  what  we  may  almost  call  the  English  Drama,  is  all 
the  more  cogent  because  he  cannot  here  be  accused  of  mere  advocacy  of  his 
own  cause.     He  has  mixed  tragedy  and  comedy  often  enough,  and  perhaps  not 
always  well;  but  he  showed,  in  the  Conquest  of  Granada  during  his  "heroic" 
fit,  and  in  All  for  Love  when  he  had  .shaken  this  off,  that  he  could  do  wonders 
without  any  intentional  comedy  at  all. 


FROM  THE  ESSAY  OF  DRAMATIC   POESY  149 

the  beauty  of  the  latter  ?  The  old  rule  of  logic  might  have  con- 
vinced him,  that  contraries,  when  placed  near,  set  off  each  other. 
A  continued  gravity  keeps  the  spirit  too  much  bent ;  we  must 
refresh  it  sometimes,  as  we  bait  in  a  journey,  that  we  may  go 
on  with  greater  ease.  A  scene  of  mirth,  mixed  with  tragedy,  has 
the  same  effect  upon  us  which  our  music  has  betwixt  the  acts ; 
which  we  find  a  relief  to  us  from  the  best  plots  and  language 
of  the  stage,  if  the  discourses  have  been  long.  I  must  therefore 
have  stronger  arguments,  ere  I  am  convinced  that  compassion  and 
mirth  in  the  same  subject  destroy  each  other;  and  in  the  mean 
time  cannot  but  conclude,  to  the  honour  of  our  nation,  that  we 
have  invented,  increased,  and  perfected  a  more  pleasant  way  of 
writing  for  the  stage,  than  was  ever  known  to  the  ancients  or 
moderns  of  any  nation,  which  is  tragicomedy. 

"  And  this  leads  me  to  wonder  why  Lisideius  and  many  others 
should  cry  up  the  barrenness  of  the  French  plots,  above  the  variety 
and  copiousness  of  the  English.  Their  plots  are  single ;  they  carry 
on  one  design,  which  is  pushed  forward  by  all  the  actors,  every 
scene  in  the  play  contributing  and  moving  towards  it.  Our  plays, 
besides  the  main  design,  have  under-plots  or  by-concernments, 
of  less  considerable  persons  and  intrigues,  which  are  carried  on 
with  the  motion  of  the  main  plot :  as  they  say  the  orb  of  the  fixed 
stars,  and  those  of  the  planets,  though  they  have  motions  of  their 
own,  are  whirled  about  by  the  motion  of  the  primum  mobile, 
in  which  they  are  continued :  that  similitude  expresses  much  of 
the  English  stage ;  for  if  contrary  motions  may  be  found  in  nature 
to  agree ;  if  a  planet  can  go  east  and  west  at  the  same  time :  one 
way  by  virtue  of  his  own  motion,  the  other  by  the  force  of  the 
first  mover :  it  will  not  be  difficult  to  imagine  how  the  under-plot, 
which  is  only  different,  not  contrary  to  the  great  design,  may 
naturally  be  conducted  along  with  it." 

C.    THE  ABSURDITY  OF  THE  STRICT  UNITIES  OF  TIME  AND  PLACE 

"  By  their  servile  observations  of  the  unities  of  time  and  place, 
and  the  integrity  of  scenes,  they  have  brought  on  themselves  that 
dearth  of  plot,  and  narrowness  of  imagination,  which  may  be 


150  DRYDEN 

observed  in  all  their  plays.  How  many  beautiful  accidents  might 
naturally  happen  in  two  or  three  days,  which  cannot  arrive  with 
any  probability  in  the  compass  of  twenty-four  hours  ?  There  is 
time  to  be  allowed  also  for  maturity  of  design,  which,  amongst 
great  and  prudent  persons,  such  as  are  often  represented  in 
tragedy,  cannot,  with  any  likelihood  of  truth,  be  brought  to  pass 
at  so  short  a  warning.  Farther,  by  tying  themselves  strictly  to 
the  unity  of  place,  and  unbroken  scenes,  they  are  forced  many 
times  to  omit  some  beauties  which  cannot  be  shown  where  the  act 
began ;  but  might,  if  the  scene  were  interrupted,  and  the  stage 
cleared  for  the  persons  to  enter  in  another  place ;  and  therefore 
the  French  poets  are  often  forced  upon  absurdities ;  for  if  the  act 
begins  in  a  chamber,  all  the  persons  in  the  play  must  have  some 
business  or  other  to  come  thither,  or  else  they  are  not  to  be  shewn 
that  act ;  and  sometimes  their  characters  are  very  unfitting  to 
appear  there :  as,  suppose  it  were  the  king's  bed-chamber ;  yet  the 
meanest  man  in  the  tragedy  must  come  and  dispatch  his  business 
there,  rather  than  in  the  lobby  or  courtyard  (which  is  fitter  for 
him),  for  fear  the  stage  should  be  cleared,  and  the  scenes  broken. 
Many  times  they  fall  by  it  in  a  greater  inconvenience ;  for  they 
keep  their  scenes  unbroken,  and  yet  change  the  place ;  as  in  one  of 
their  newest  plays,  where  the  act  begins  in  the  street.  There 
a  gentleman  is  to  meet  his  friend ;  he  sees  him  with  his  man,  com- 
ing out  from  his  father's  house ;  they  talk  together,  and  the  first 
goes  out :  the  second,  who  is  a  lover,  has  made  an  appointment 
with  his  mistress ;  she  appears  at  the  window,  and  then  we  are 
to  imagine  the  scene  lies  under  it.  This  gentleman  is  called  away, 
and  leaves  his  servant  with  his  mistress ;  presently  her  father 
is  heard  from  within ;  the  young  lady  is  afraid  the  serving-man 
should  be  discovered,  and  thrusts  him  into  a  place  of  safety,  which 
is  supposed  to  be  her  closet.  After  this,  the  father  enters  to  the 
daughter,  and  now  the  scene  is  in  a  house ;  for  he  is  seeking  from 
one  room  to  another  for  this  poor  Philipin,  or  French  Diego,  who 
is  heard  from  within,  drolling  and  breaking  many  a  miserable  con- 
ceit on  the  subject  of  his  sad  condition.  In  this  ridiculous  manner 
the  play  goes  forward,  the  stage  being  never  empty  all  the  while : 
so  that  the  street,  the  window,  the  houses,  and  the  closet,  are  made 


FROM   THE   ESSAY  OF   DRAMATIC   POESY  151 

to  walk  about,  and  the  persons  to  stand  still.  Now  what,  I 
beseech  you,  is  more  easy  than  to  write  a  regular  French  play,  or 
more  difficult  than  to  write  aii  irregular  English  one,  like  those  of 
Fletcher,  or  of  Shakespeare  ?  " 

D.     THE  CHARACTERS  OF  SHAKESPEARE,  FLETCHER,  AND  JONSON 

"  To  begin,  then,  with  Shakespeare :  he  was  the  man  who  of 
all  modern,  and  perhaps  ancient  poets,  had  the  largest  and  most 
comprehensive  soul.  All  the  images  of  nature  were  still  present 
to  him,  and  he  drew  them,  not  laboriously,  but  luckily;  when 
he  describes  any  thing,  you  more  than  see  it,  you  feel  it  too. 
Those  who  accuse  him  to  have  wanted  learning,  give  him  the 
greater  commendation :  he  was  naturally  learned ;  he  needed  not 
the  spectacles  of  books  to  read  nature ;  he  looked  inwards,  and 
found  her  there.  I  cannot  say  he  is  everywhere  alike ;  were  he 
so,  I  should  do  him  injury  to  compare  him  with  the  greatest 
of  mankind.  He  is  many  times  flat,  insipid;  his  comic  wit 
degenerating  into  clenches,  his  serious  swelling  into  bombast.  But 
he  is  always  great,  when  some  great  occasion  is  presented  to  him ; 
no  man  can  say  he  ever  had  a  fit  subject  for  his  wit,  and  did 
not  then  raise  himself  as  high  above  the  rest  of  poets, 

Quantum  lenta  solent  inter  vlburna  cupressi. 

"The  consideration  of  this  made  Mr.  Hales  of  Eton  say,  that 
there  was  no  subject  of  which  any  poet  ever  writ,  but  he  would 
produce  it  much  better  done  in  Shakespeare ;  and  however  others 
are  now  generally  preferred  before  him,  yet  the  age  wherein  he 
lived,  which  had  contemporaries  with  him  Fletcher  and  Jonson, 
never  equalled  them  to  him  in  their  esteem :  and  in  the  last 
king's  court,  when  Ben's  reputation  was  at  highest,  Sir  John 
Suckling,  and  with  him  the  greater  part  of  the  courtiers,  set  our 
Shakespeare  far  above  him. 

"Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  of  whom  I  am  next  to  speak,  had, 
with  the  advantage  of  Shakespeare's  wit,  which  was  their  preced- 
ent, great  natural  gifts,  improved  by  study.  Beaumont  especially 
being  so  accurate  a  judge  of  plays,  that  Ben  Jonson,  while  he 
lived,  submitted  all  his  writings  to  his  censure,  and,  't  is  thought, 


152  DRYDEN 

used  his  judgment  in  correcting,  if  not  contriving,  all  his  plots. 
What  value  he  had  for  him,  appears  by  the  verses  he  writ  to  him; 
and  therefore  I  need  speak  no  farther  of  it.  The  first  play  that 
brought  Fletcher  and  him  in  esteem  was  their  Philaster:  for  before 
that,  they  had  written  two  or  three  very  unsuccessfully,  as  the  like 
is  reported  of  Ben  Jonson,  before  he  writ  Every  Man  in  his 
Humour.  Their  plots  were  generally  more  regular  than  Shake- 
speare's, especially  those  which  were  made  before  Beaumont's 
death ;  and  they  understood  and  imitated  the  conversation  of 
gentlemen  much  better ;  whose  wild  debaucheries,  and  quickness 
of  wit  in  repartees,  no  poet  before  them  could  paint  as  they  have 
done.  Humour,  which  Ben  Jonson  derived  from  particular  per- 
sons, they  made  it  not  their  business  to  describe :  they  represented 
all  the  passions  very  lively,  but  above  all,  love.  I  am  apt  to  believe 
the  English  language  in  them  arrived  to  its  highest  perfection : 
what  words  have  since  been  taken  in,  are  rather  superfluous  than 
ornamental.  Their  plays  are  now  the  most  pleasant  and  frequent 
entertainments  of  the  stage ;  two  of  theirs  being  acted  through 
the  year  for  one  of  Shakespeare's  or  Jonson's :  the  reason  is, 
because  there  is  a  certain  gaiety  in  their  comedies,  and  pathos 
in  their  more  serious  plays,  which  suits  generally  with  all  men's 
humours.  Shakespeare's  language  is  likewise  a  little  obsolete,  and 
Ben  Jonson's  wit  comes  short  of  theirs. 

"  As  for  Jonson,  to  whose  character  I  am  now  arrived,  if  we  look 
upon  him  while  he  was  himself  (for  his  last  plays  were  but  his 
dotages),  I  think  him  the  most  learned  and  judicious  writer  which 
any  theatre  ever  had.  He  was  a  most  severe  judge  of  himself,  as 
well  as  others.  One  cannot  say  he  wanted  wit,  but  rather  that  he 
was  frugal  of  it.  In  his  works  you  find  little  to  retrench  or  alter. 
Wit,  and  language,  and  humour  also  in  some  measure,  we  had 
before  him;  but  something  of  art  was  wanting  to  the  drama,  till 
he  came.  He  managed  his  strength  to  more  advantage  than  any 
who  preceded  him.  You  seldom  find  him  making  love  in  any 
of  his  scenes,  or  endeavouring  to  move  the  passions;  his  genius 
was  too  sullen  and  saturnine  to  do  it  gracefully,  especially  when 
he  knew  he  came  after  those  who  had  performed  both  to  such 
an  height.  Humour  was  his  proper  sphere ;  and  in  that  he  delighted 


DEFENCE  OF   THE  ESSAY  153 

• 

most  to  represent  mechanic  people.  He  was  deeply  conversant  in 
the  ancients,  both  Greek  and  Latin,  and  he  borrowed  boldly  from 
them  :  there  is  scarce  a  poet  or  historian  among  the  Roman  authors 
of  those  times  whom  he  has  not  translated  in  Sejanus  and  Catiline. 
But  he  has  done  his  robberies  so  openly,  that  one  may  see  he  fears 
not  to  be  taxed  by  any  law.  He  invades  authors  like  a  monarch ; 
and  what  would  be  theft  in  other  poets,  is  only  victory  in  him. 
With  the  spoils  of  these  writers  he  so  represents  old  Rome  to  us, 
in  its  rites,  ceremonies,  and  customs,  that  if  one  of  their  poets  had 
written  either  of  his  tragedies,  we  had  seen  less  of  it  than  in  him. 
If  there  was  any  fault  in  his  language,  't  was  that  he  weaved  it  too 
closely  and  laboriously,  in  his  comedies  especially :  perhaps  too,  he 
did  a  little  too  much  Romanize  our  tongue,  leaving  the  words  which 
he  translated  almost  as  much  Latin  as  he  found  them :  wherein, 
though  he  learnedly  followed  their  language,  he  did  not  enough 
comply  with  the  idiom  of  ours.  If  I  would  compare  him  with 
Shakespeare,  I  must  acknowledge  him  the  more  correct  poet,  but 
Shakespeare  the  greater  wit.  Shakespeare  was  the  Homer,  or 
father  of  our  dramatic  poets ;  Jonson  was  the  Virgil,  the  pattern 
of  elaborate  writing ;  I  admire  him,  but  I  love  Shakespeare.  To 
conclude  of  him ;  as  he  has  given  us  the  most  correct  plays,  so  in 
the  precepts  which  he  has  laid  down  in  his  Discoveries,  we  have 
as  many  and  profitable  rules  for  perfecting  the  stage,  as  any 
wherewith  the  French  can  furnish  us." 


III.     DEFENCE   OF    THE   ESSAY 
REVISED  DEFENCE  OF  RHYME  AGAINST  SIR  ROBERT  HOWARD  l 

But  to  return  to  verse  :  whether  it  be  natural  or  not  in  plays,  is 
a  problem  which  is  not  demonstrable  of  either  side :  't  is  enough 
for  me  that  he  acknowledges  he  had  rather  read  good  verse  than 
prose :  for  if  all  the  enemies  of  verse  will  confess  as  much,  I  shall 
not  need  to  prove  that  it  is  natural.  I  am  satisfied,  if  it  cause 
delight :  for  delight  is  the  chief,  if  not  the  only,  end  of  poesy : 

1  Who,  having  been  introduced  as  "  Crites"  in  the  Essay,  opposing  rhymed 
drama,  had  replied  tartly  in  the  Preface  to  his  Duke  of  Lerma. 


154  DRYDEN 

instruction  can  be  admitted  but  in  the  second  place ;  for  poesy  only 
instructs  as  it  delights.  'T  is  true,  that  to  imitate  well  is  a  poet's 
work ;  but  to  affect  the  soul,  and  excite  the  passions,  and  above  all 
to  move  admiration  (which  is  the  delight  of  serious  plays)  a  bare 
imitation  will  not  serve.  The  converse,  therefore,  which  a  poet  is 
to  imitate,  must  be  heightened  with  all  the  arts  and  ornaments  of 
poesy;  and  must  be  such,  as,  strictly  considered,  could  never  be 
supposed  spoken  by  any  without  premeditation. 

As  for  what  he  urges,  that  "  a  play  will  still  be  supposed  to  be  a 
composition  of  several  persons  speaking  ex  tempore  ;  and  that  good 
verses  are  the  hardest  things  which  can  be  imagined  to  be  so  spoken," 
I  must  crave  leave  to  dissent  from  his  opinion,  as  to  the  former 
part  of  it :  for,  if  I  am  not  deceived,  a  play  is  supposed  to  be  the 
work  of  the  poet,  imitating  or  representing  the  conversation  of 
several  persons ;  and  this  I  think  to  be  as  clear,  as  he  thinks  the 
contrary. 

But  I  will  be  bolder,  and  do  not  doubt  to  make  it  good,  though  a 
paradox,  that  one  great  reason  why  prose  is  not  to  be  used  in  seri- 
ous plays,  is,  because  it  is  too  near  the  nature  of  converse :  there 
may  be  too  great  a  likeness ;  as  the  most  skilful  painters  affirm, 
that  there  may  be  too  near  a  resemblance  in  a  picture :  to  take 
every  lineament  and  feature,  is  not  to  make  an  excellent  piece ;  but 
to  take  so  much  only  as  will  make  a  beautiful  resemblance  of  the 
whole ;  and,  with  an  ingenious  flattery  of  nature,  to  heighten  the 
beauties  of  some  part,  and  hide  the  deformities  of  the  rest.  For 
so  says  Horace : 

Ut  pictura  poesis  erit.  .  .  . 

Hsec  amat  obscurum,  vult  haec  sub  luce  videri, 

Judicis  argutum  quse  non  formidat  acumen. 

.  .  .  et  quae 
Desperat  tractata  nitescere  posse,  relinquit. 

In  Bartholomew  Fair,  or  the  lowest  kind  of  comedy,  that  degree 
of  heightening  is  used,  which  is  proper  to  set  off  that  subject.  'T  is 
true  the  author  was  not  there  to  go  out  of  prose,  as  he  does  in  his 
higher  arguments  of  comedy,  The  Fox,  and  Alchemist ;  yet  he  does 
so  raise  his  matter  in  that  prose,  as  to  render  it  delightful ;  which 
he  could  never  have  performed,  had  he  only  said  or  done  those  very 


DEFENCE  OF  THE  ESSAY  155 

things  that  are  daily  spoken  or  practised  in  the  Fair ;  for  then  the 
Fair  itself  would  be  as  full  of  pleasure  to  an  ingenious  person  as 
the  play  ;  which  we  manifestly  see  it  is  not.  But  he  hath  made  an 
excellent  lazar  of  it :  the  copy  is  of  price,  though  the  original  be 
vile.  You  see  in  Catiline  and  Sejanus,  where  the  argument  is  great, 
he  sometimes  ascends  to  verse,  which  shows  he  thought  it  not 
unnatural  in  serious  plays :  and  had  his  genius  been  as  proper  for 
rhyme,  as  it  was  for  humour,  or  had  the  age  in  which  he  lived 
attained  to  as  much  knowledge  in  verse  as  ours,  it  is  probable  he 
would  have  adorned  those  subjects  with  that  kind  of  writing. 

Thus  prose,  though  the  rightful  prince,  yet  is  by  common  consent 
deposed,  as  too  weak  for  the  government  of  serious  plays ;  and  he 
failing,  there  now  start  up  two  competitors ;  one  the  nearer  in 
blood,  which  is  blank  verse ;  the  other  more  fit  for  the  ends  of 
government,  which  is  rhyme.  Blank  verse  is,  indeed,  the  nearer 
prose,  but  he  is  blemished  with  the  weakness  of  his  predecessor. 
Khyme  (for  I  will  deal  clearly)  has  somewhat  of  the  usurper  in 
him ;  but  he  is  brave  and  generous,  and  his  dominion  pleasing. 
For  this  reason  of  delight,  the  ancients  (whom  I  will  still  believe  as 
wise  as  those  who  so  confidently  correct  them)  wrote  all  their  trage- 
dies in  verse,  though  they  knew  it  most  remote  from  conversation. 

But  I  perceive  I  am  falling  into  the  danger  of  another  rebuke 
from  my  opponent;  for  when  I  plead  that  "the  ancients  used 
verse,"  I  prove  not  that  they  would  have  admitted  rhyme,  had  it 
then  been  written  :  all  I  can  say  is  only  this ;  that  it  seems  to  have 
succeeded  verse  by  the  general  consent  of  poets  in  all  modern  langu- 
ages :  for  almost  all  their  serious  plays  are  written  in  it :  which, 
though  it  be  no  demonstration  that  therefore  they  ought  to  be  so, 
yet  at  least  the  practice  first,  and  then  the  continuation  of  it,  shows 
that  it  attained  the  end,  which  was  to  please ;  and  if  that  cannot  be 
compassed  here,  I  will  be  the  first  who  shall  lay  it  down.  For 
I  confess  my  chief  endeavours  are  to  delight  the  age  in  which  I 
live.  If  the  humour  of  this  be  for  low  comedy,  small  accidents, 
and  raillery,  I  will  force  my  genius  to  obey  it,  though  with  more 
reputation  I  could  write  in  verse.  I  know  I  am  not  so  fitted  by 
nature  to  write  comedy :  I  want  that  gaiety  of  humour  which 
is  required  to  it,  My  conversation  is  slow  and  dull,  my  humour 


156  DRYDEN 

saturnine  and  reserved  :  in  short,  I  am  none  of  those  who  endeavour 
to  break  jests  in  company,  or  make  repartees.  So  that  those  who 
decry  my  comedies  do  me  no  injury,  except  it  be  in  point  of  profit : 
reputation  in  them  is  the  last  thing  to  which  I  shall  pretend. 

IV.     "THE   STORY   IS    THE    LEAST   PART"1 

But  these  little  critics  do  not  well  consider  what  is  the  work  of 
a  poet,  and  what  the  graces  of  a  poem :  the  story  is  the  least  part 
of  either :  I  mean  the  foundation  of  it,  before  it  is  modelled  by  the 
art  of  him  who  writes  it ;  who  forms  it  with  more  care,  by  exposing 
only  the  beautiful  parts  of  it  to  view,  than  a  skilful  lapidary  sets  a 
jewel.  On  this  foundation  of  the  story,  the  characters  are  raised: 
and,  since  no  story  can  afford  characters  enough  for  the  variety  of 
the  English  stage,  it  follows,  that  it  is  to  be  altered  and  enlarged 
with  new  persons,  accidents,  and  designs,  which  will  almost  make 
it  new.  When  this  is  done,  the  forming  it  into  acts  and  scenes, 
disposing  of  actions  and  passions  into  their  proper  places,  and 
beautifying  both  with  descriptions,  similitudes,  and  propriety  of 
language,  is  the  principal  employment  of  the  poet;  as  being  the 
largest  field  of  fancy,  which  is  the  principal  quality  required  in 
him :  for  so  much  the  word  71-01771-17?  implies.  Judgment,  indeed,  is 
necessary  in  him ;  but  it  is  fancy  that  gives  the  life-touches,  and 
the  secret  graces  to  it ;  especially  in  serious  plays,  which  depend 
not  much  on  observation.  For,  to  write  humour  in  comedy  (which 
is  the  theft  of  poets  from  mankind),  little  of  fancy  is  required ; 
the  poet  observes  only  what  is  ridiculous  and  pleasant  folly,  and 
by  judging  exactly  what  is  so,  he  pleases  in  the  representation  of  it. 

But,  in  general,  the  employment  of  a  poet  is  like  that  of  a  curious 
gunsmith,  or  watchmaker  :  the  iron  or  silver  is  not  his  own ;  but 
they  are  the  least  part  of  that  which  gives  the  value :  the  price 
lies  wholly  in  the  workmanship.  And  he  who  works  dully  on  a 
story,  without  moving  laughter  in  a  comedy,  or  raising  concernment 

1  In  this,  as  in  so  many  casual  and  ad  hoc  observations  of  his,  Dryden 
launches  a  veritable  critical  battle-ship  (or  fire-ship,  perhaps,  rather).  First 
fable,  then  characters,  then  diction,  etc.,  had  been,  in  a  steep  slope  of  descent, 
the  hierarchical  arrangement  of  the  ancients  :  it  is  here  exactly  reversed. 


SHAKESPEARE  AND  FLETCHER  157 

in  a  serious  play,  is  no  more  to  be  accounted  a  good  poet,  than 
a  gunsmith  of  the  Minories  is  to  be  compared  with  the  best 
workman  of  the  town.  Preface  to  An  Evening's  Love,  sub  fin. 


V.     SHAKESPEARE    AND   FLETCHER 

For  what  remains,  the  excellency  of  that  poet  was,  as  I  have  said, 
in  the  more  manly  passions ;  Fletcher's  in  the  softer.  Shakespeare 
writ  better  betwixt  man  and  man ;  Fletcher  betwixt  man  and 
woman.  Consequently  the  one  described  friendship  better,  the 
other  love ;  yet  Shakespeare  taught  Fletcher  to  write  love,  and 
Juliet  and  Desdemona  are  originals.  It  is  true  the  scholar  had 
the  softer  soul ;  but  the  master  had  the  kinder.  Friendship  is  both 
a  virtue  and  a  passion  essentially ;  Love  is  a  passion  only  in  its 
nature,  and  is  not  a  virtue  but  by  accident.  Good  nature  makes 
friendship ;  but  effeminacy  love.  Shakespeare  had  an  universal 
mind  which  comprehended  all  characters  and  passions ;  Fletcher 
a  more  confined  and  limited  —  for  though  he  treated  love  in  per- 
fection, yet  honour,  ambition,  revenge,  and  generally  all  the 
stronger  passions,  he  touched  not,  or  not  masterly.  To  conclude 
all,  he  was  a  limb  of  Shakespeare. 

Preface  to  Troilus  and  Cressida. 


VI.     REMARKS   ON   RYMER 

These  remarks  were  never  published  by  Dryden,  but  there  is  no  reason- 
able doubt  of  their  genuineness.  For  their  history,  see  Scott's  Dryden 
(with  the  present  editor's  comments),  xv.  379  sq.  Thomas  Ryraer,  who  has 
been  described  by  Macaulay,  in  superlative  for  once  at  least  scarcely  hyper- 
bolic, as  "the  worst  critic  who  ever  lived,"  published  in  1678  a  little 
volume  on  The  Tragedies  of  the  Last  Age,  and  gave  a  copy  of  it  to  Dryden, 
with  whom  he  was  both  theti  and  at  periods  afterwards,  though  not  always, 
on  good  terms.  On  the  fly-leaves  of  this  Dryden  seems  to  have  written 
some  Heads  of  an  Answer  which  he  never  worked  up.  The  general  drift 
is  rather  to  outflank,  than  directly  to  oppose,  Rymer'a  exaltation  of  Greek 
above  English  drama. 


158  DRYDEN 

The  answerer  ought  to  prove  two  things  :  First  that  the  fable  is 
not  the  greatest  masterpiece  of  a  tragedy,  though  it  be  the  found- 
ation of  it.  Secondly  that  other  ends,  as  suitable  to  the  nature  of 
tragedy,  may  be  found  in  the  English,  which  were  not  in  the  Greek. 

And  one  reason  of  that  success,  is,  in  my  opinion,  this,  that 
Shakespeare  and  Fletcher  have  written  to  the  genius  of  the  age  and 
nation  in  which  they  lived  :  for  though  nature,  as  he  objects,  is  the 
same  in  all  places,  and  reason  too  the  same,  yet  the  climate,  the 
age,  the  disposition  of  the  people,  to  which  a  poet  writes,  may  be  so 
different,  that  what  pleased  the  Greeks  would  not  satisfy  an 
English  audience. 

It  is  not  enough  that  Aristotle  has  said  so,  for  Aristotle  drew 
his  models  of  tragedy  from  Sophocles  and  Euripides  :  AND,  IF  HE 

HAD    SEEN    OURS,    MIGHT    HAVE    CHANGED    HIS    MIND. 


VII.     THE   VIA  MEDIA   OF   TRANSLATION1 

The  consideration  of  these  difficulties,  in  a  servile,  literal  trans- 
lation, not  long  since  made  two  of  our  famous  wits,  Sir  John 
Denham  and  Mr.  Cowley,  to  contrive  another  way  of  turning 
authors  into  our  tongue,  called,  by  the  latter  of  them,  imitation. 
As  they  were  friends,  I  suppose  they  communicated  their  thoughts 
on  this  subject  to  each  other ;  and  therefore  their  reasons  for  it  are 
little  different,  though  the  practice  of  one  is  much  more  moderate. 
I  take  imitation  of  an  author,  in  their  sense,  to  be  an  endeavour  of 
a  later  poet  to  write  like  one  who  has  written  before  him,  on  the 
same  subject ;  that  is,  not  to  translate  his  words,  or  to  be  confined 
to  his  sense,  but  only  to  set  him  as  a  pattern,  and  to  write,  as  he 
supposes  that  author  would  have  done,  had  he  lived  in  our  age,  and 
in  our  country.  Yet  I  dare  not  say,  that  either  of  them  have  carried 
this  libertine  way  of  rendering  authors  (as  Mr.  Cowley  calls  it)  so 
far  as  my  definition  reaches ;  for,  in  the  Pindaric  odes,  the  customs 
and  ceremonies  of  ancient  Greece  are  still  preserved.  But  I  know 

1  From  the  Preface  to  the  Translation  of  Ovid's  Epistles. 


THE  VIA  MEDIA  OF  TRANSLATION  159 

not  what  mischief  may  arise  hereafter  from  the  example  of  such  an 
innovation,  when  writers  of  unequal  parts  to  him  shall  imitate  so 
bold  an  undertaking.  To  add  and  to  diminish  what  we  please, 
which  is  the  way  avowed  by  him,  ought  only  to  be  granted  to 
Mr.  Cowley,  and  that  too  only  in  his  translation  of  Pindar ;  because 
he  alone  was  able  to  make  him  amends,  by  giving  him  better  of  his 
own,  whenever  he  refused  his  author's  thoughts.  Pindar  is  gener- 
ally known  to  be  a  dark  writer,  to  want  connection,  (I  mean  as  to 
our  understanding,)  to  soar  out  of  sight,  and  leave  his  reader  at  a 
gaze.  So  wild  and  ungovernable  a  poet  cannot  be  translated  liter- 
ally ;  his  genius  is  too  strong  to  bear  a  chain,  and,  Samson-like,  he 
shakes  it  off.  A  genius  so  elevated  and  unconfined  as  Mr.  Cowley's, 
was  but  necessary  to  make  Pindar  speak  English,  and  that  was  to 
be  performed  by  no  other  way  than  imitation.  But  if  Virgil,  or 
Ovid,  or  any  regular  intelligible  authors,  be  thus  used,  it  is  no  longer 
to  be  called  their  work,  when  neither  the  thoughts  nor  words  are 
drawn  from  the  original ;  but  instead  of  them  there  is  something 
new  produced,  which  is  almost  the  creation  of  another  hand.  By 
this  way,  it  is  true,  somewhat  that  is  excellent  may  be  invented, 
perhaps  more  excellent  than  the  first  design ;  though  Virgil  must 
be  still  excepted,  when  that  perhaps  takes  place.  Yet  he  who  is 
inquisitive  to  know  an  author's  thoughts,  will  be  disappointed  in 
his  expectation ;  and  it  is  not  always  that  a  man  will  be  contented 
to  have  a  present  made  him,  when  he  expects  the  payment  of  a  debt. 
To  state  it  fairly ;  imitation  of  an  author  is  the  most  advantageous 
way  for  a  translator  to  show  himself,  but  the  greatest  wrong  which 
can  be  done  to  the  memory  and  reputation  of  the  dead.  Sir  John 
Denham  (who  advised  more  liberty  than  he  took  himself)  gives 
his  reason  for  his  innovation,  in  his  admirable  preface  before  the 
translation  of  the  second  JEneid:  "Poetry  is  of  so  subtile  a  spirit, 
that,  in  pouring  out  of  one  language  into  another,  it  will  all  evapo- 
rate ;  and,  if  a  new  spirit  be  not  added  in  the  transfusion,  there  will 
remain  nothing  but  a  caput  mortuum."  I  confess  this  argument  holds 
good  against  a  literal  translation  ;  but  who  defends  it  ?  Imitation 
and  verbal  version  are,  in  my  opinion,  the  two  extremes  which 
ought  to  be  avoided  ;  and  therefore,  when  I  have  proposed  the  mean 
betwixt  them,  it  will  be  seen  how  far  his  argument  will  reach. 


160  DRYDEN 

No  man  is  capable  of  translating  poetry,  who,  besides  a  genius  to 
that  art,  is  not  a  master  both  of  his  author's  language,  and  of  his 
own;  nor  must  we  understand  the  language  only  of  the  poet,. but 
his  particular  turn  of  thoughts  and  expression,  which  are  the 
characters  that  distinguish,  and  as  it  were  individuate  him  from  all 
other  writers.  When  we  are  come  thus  far,  it  is  time  to  look  into 
ourselves,  to  conform  our  genius  to  his,  to  give  his  thought  either 
the  same  turn,  if  our  tongue  will  bear  it,  or,  if  not,  to  vary  but  the 
dress,  not  to  alter  or  destroy  the  substance.  The  like  care  must 
be  taken  of  the  more  outward  ornaments,  the  words.  When  they 
appear  (which  is  but  seldom)  literally  graceful,  it  were  an  injury  to 
the  author  that  they  should  be  changed.  But,  since  every  language 
is  so  full  of  its  own  proprieties,  that  what  is  beautiful  in  one,  is 
often  barbarous,  nay  sometimes  nonsense,  in  another,  it  would  be 
unreasonable  to  limit  a  translator  to  the  narrow  compass  of  his 
author's  words :  it  is  enough  if  he  choose  out  some  expression 
which  does  not  vitiate  the  sense.  I  suppose  he  may  stretch  his 
chain  to  such  a  latitude ;  but,  by  innovation  of  thoughts,  methinks, 
he  breaks  it.  By  this  means  the  spirit  of  an  author  may  be  trans- 
fused, and  yet  not  lost :  and  thus  it  is  plain,  that  the  reason  alleged 
by  Sir  John  Denham  has  no  further  force  than  to  expression ;  for 
thought,  if  it  be  translated  truly,  cannot  be  lost  in  another  language ; 
but  the  words  that  convey  it  to  our  apprehension  (which  are  the 
image  and  ornament  of  that  thought,)  may  be  so  ill  chosen,  as  to 
make  it  appear  in  an  unhandsome  dress,  and  rob  it  of  its  native 
lustre.  There  is,  therefore,  a  liberty  to  be  allowed  for  the  express- 
ion ;  neither  is  it  necessary  that  words  and  lines  should  be  confined 
to  the  measure  of  their  original.  The  sense  of  an  author,  generally 
speaking,  is  to  be  sacred  and  inviolable.  If  the  fancy  of  Ovid  be 
luxuriant,  it  is  his  character  to  be  so  ;.  and  if  I  retrench  it,  he  is  no 
longer  Ovid.  It  will  be  replied,  that  he  receives  advantage  by  this 
lopping  of  his  superfluous  branches ;  but  I  rejoin,  that  a  translator 
has  no  such  right.  When  a  painter  copies  from  the  life,  I  suppose 
he  has  no  privilege  to  alter  features,  and  lineaments,  under  pretence 
that  his  picture  will  look  better:  perhaps  the  face,  which  he  has 
drawn,  would  be  more  exact,  if  the  eyes  or  nose  were  altered ;  but 
it  is  his  business  to  make  it  resemble  the  original.  In  two  cases 


GOOD-BYE  TO  RANT  1G1 

only  there  may  a  seeming  difficulty  arise  ;  that  is,  if  the  thought 
be  notoriously  trivial,  or  dishonest ;  but  the  same  answer  will  serve 
for  both,  that  then  they  ought  not  to  be  translated :  — 

Et  quae 


Desperes  tractate,  nitescere  posse,  relinquas. 

Thus  I  have  ventured  to  give  my  opinion  on  this  subject  against 
the  authority  of  two  great  men,  but  I  hope  without  offence  to  either 
of  their  memories ;  for  I  both  loved  them  living,  and  reverence 
them  now  they  are  dead.  But  if,  after  what  I  have  urged,  it  be 
thought  by  better  judges,  that  the  praise  of  a  translation  consists  in 
adding  new  beauties  to  the  piece,  thereby  to  recompense  the  loss 
which  it  sustains  by  change  of  language,  I  shall  be  willing  to 
be  taught  better,  and  to  recant.  In  the  meantime,  it  seems  to  me 
that  the  true  reason  why  we  have  so  few  versions  which  are  toler- 
able, is  not  from  the  too  close  pursuing  of  the  author's  sense,  but 
because  there  are  so  few  who  have  all  the  talents  which  are 
requisite  for  translation,  and  that  there  is  so  little  praise,  and  so 
small  encouragement,  for  so  considerable  a  part  of  learning. 

VIII.     GOOD-BYE    TO    RANT1 

In  a  play-house,  everything  contributes  to  impose  upon  the  judg- 
ment; the  lights,  the  scenes,  the  habits,  and,  above  all,  the  grace 
of  action,  which  is  commonly  the  best  where  there  is  the  most 
need  of  it,  surprise  the  audience,  and  cast  a  mist  upon  their  under- 
standings ;  not  unlike  the  cunning  of  a  juggler,  who  is  always 
staring  us  in  the  face,  and  overwhelming  us  with  gibberish,  only 
that  he  may  gain  the  opportunity  of  making  the  cleaner  convey- 
ance of  his  trick.  But  these  false  beauties  of  the  stage  are  no 

1  This  interesting  apology  "  for  his  own  house  "  —  bombast  —  is  from  the  Dedi- 
cation of  the  Spanish  Friar  (1681).  Dryden  makes  up  for  his  justice  on  him- 
self by  being  rather  unjust  to  Chapman  ;  but  though  never  actually  shipwrecked 
on  the  loadstone  rock  of  "  Good  Sense,"  he  sometimes  drifted  towards  it.  The 
"  famous  modern  poet  "  was  Naugerius,  or  Navagero;  and  while  the  victim  was 
actually  Martial,  not  Statius,  it  seems  very  probable  that  the  idol  was  Catullus, 
not  Virgil. 


162  DRYDEN 

more  lasting  than  a  rainbow ;  when  the  actor  ceases  to  shine  upon 
them,  when  he  gilds  them  no  longer  with  his  reflection,  they  vanish 
in  a  twinkling.  I  have  sometimes  wondered,  in  the  reading,  what 
was  become  of  those  glaring  colours  which  amazed  me  in  Bussy 
d'Ambois  upon  the  theatre ;  but  when  I  had  taken  up  what  I 
supposed  a  fallen  star,  I  found  I  had  been  cozened  with  a  jelly ; 
nothing  but  a  cold,  dull  mass,  which  glittered  no  longer  than  it 
was  shooting;  a  dwarfish  thought,  dressed  up  in  gigantic  words, 
repetition  in  abundance,  looseness  of  expression,  and  gross  hyper- 
boles; the  sense  of  one  line  expanded  prodigiously  into  ten;  and, 
to  sum  up  all,  uncorrect  English,  and  a  hideous  mingle  of  false 
poetry,  and  true  nonsense;  or,  at  best,  a  scantling  of  wit,  which 
lay  gasping  for  life,  and  groaning  beneath  a  heap  of  rubbish. 
A  famous  modern  poet  used  to  sacrifice  every  year  a  Statius 
to  Virgil's  manes ;  and  I  have  indignation  enough  to  burn  a 
D'AMBOIS  annually,  to  the  memory  of  Jonson.  But  now,  my  lord, 
I  am  sensible,  perhaps  too  late,  that  I  have  gone  too  far :  for, 
I  remember  some  verses  of  my  own  Maximin  and  Almanzor,  which 
cry  vengeance  upon  me  for  their  extravagance,  and  which  I  wish 
heartily  in  the  same  fire  with  Statius  and  Chapman.  All  I  can  say 
for  those  passages,  which  are,  I  hope,  not  many,  is,  that  I  knew 
they  were  bad  enough  to  please,  even  when  I  writ  them ;  but  I 
repent  of  them  amongst  my  sins ;  and,  if  any  of  their  fellows 
intrude  by  chance  into  my  present  writings,  I  draw  a  stroke  over 
all  those  Delilahs  of  the  theatre;  and  am  resolved  I  will  settle 
myself  no  reputation  by  the  applause  of  fools.  It  is  not  that 
I  am  mortified  to  all  ambition,  but  I  scorn  as  much  to  take  it  from 
half-witted  judges,  as  I  should  to  raise  an  estate  by  cheating  of 
bubbles.  Neither  do  I  discommend  the  lofty  style  in  tragedy, 
which  is  naturally  pompous  and  magnificent ;  but  nothing  is  truly 
sublime  that  is  not  just  and  proper.  If  the  ancients  had  judged 
by  the  same  measure,  which  a  common  reader  takes,  they  had 
concluded  Statius  to  have  written  higher  than  Virgil,  for, 

Quae  superimposito  moles  geminata  Colosso 
carries  a  more  thundering  kind  of  sound  than 

Tityre,  tu  patulae  recubans  sub  tegmine  fagi : 


CRITICASTRY  163 

yet  Virgil  had  all  the  majesty  of  a  lawful  prince,  and  Statius  only 
the  blustering  of  a  tyrant.  But  when  men  affect  a  virtue  which 
they  cannot  easily  reach,  they  fall  into  a  vice,  which  bears  the  near- 
est resemblance  to  it.  Thus,  an  injudicious  poet,  who  aims  at  lofti- 
ness, runs  easily  into  the  swelling  puffy  style,  because  it  looks  like 
greatness.  I  remember,  when  I  was  a  boy,  I  thought  inimitable 
Spenser  a  mean  poet,  in  comparison  of  Sylvester's  Dubartas,  and 
was  rapt  into  an  ecstasy  when  I  read  these  lines  — 

Now,  when  the  winter's  keener  breath  began 
To  crystallize  the  Baltic  ocean ; 
To  glaze  the  lakes,  to  bridle  up  the  floods, 
And  periwig  with  snow  the  bald-pate  woods:  —  * 

I  am  much  deceived  if  this  be  not  abominable  fustian,  that  is, 
thoughts  and  words  ill-sorted,  and  without  the  least  relation  to 
each  other;  yet  I  dare  not  answer  for  an  audience,  that  they  would 
not  clap  it  on  the  stage :  so  little  value  there  is  to  be  given  to  the 
common  cry,  that  nothing  but  madness  can  please  madmen,  and  the 
poet  must  be  of  a  piece  with  the  spectators,  to  gain  a  reputation 
with  them.  But,  as  in  a  room,  contrived  for  state,  the  height  of 
the  roof  should  bear  a  proportion  to  the  area;  so,  in  the  height- 
enings  of  poetry,  the  strength  and  vehemence  of  figures  should  be 
suited  to  the  occasion,  the  subject,  and  the  persons.  All  beyond 
this  is  monstrous:  it  is  out  of  nature,  it  is  an  excrescence,  and  not 
a  living  part  of  poetry. 


IX.     CRITICASTRY l 

There  are  a  sort  of  blundering  half-witted  people  who  make  a 
great  noise  about  a  verbal  slip ;  though  Horace  would  instruct  them 

better  in  true  criticism ; 

non  ego  paucis,  etc. 

True  judgment  in  Poetry,  like  that  in  Painting,  takes  a  view  of  the 
whole  together,  whether  it  be  good  or  not ;  and  where  the  beauties 

*Dryden  has  elsewhere  ridiculed  this  absurd  passage.     The  original  has 
"periwig  with  wool."  —  SCOTT. 

1  From  the  Preface  to  the  Second  Miscellany  (1685). 


164  DRYDEN 

are  more  than  the  faults,  concludes  for  the  poet  against  the  little 
judge.  "Tis  a  sign  that  malice  is  hard  driven  when  'tis  forced  to 
lay  hold  on  a  word  or  a  syllable  :  to  arraign  a  man  is  one  thing, 
and  to  cavil  at  him  is  another. 

Preface  to  the  Second  Part  of  Poetical  Miscellanies. 

Ill  writers  are  commonly  the  sharpest  censors  ;  for  they,  as  the 
best  poet  and  the  best  patron  l  said  — 

When  in  the  full  perfection  of  decay 
Turn  vinegar,  and  come  again  in  play. 

Thus  the  corruption  of  a  poet  is  the  generation  of  a  critic. 

Dedication  of  the  Third  Part  of  Miscellany  Poems. 

There  are  a  middle  sort  of  readers  (as  we  hold  there  is  a  middle 
state  of  souls)  such  as  have  a  further  insight  than  the  former  yet 
have  not  the  capacity  of  judging  right.  For  I  speak  not  of  those 
who  are  bribed  by  a  party,  and  know  better,  if  they  were  not  cor- 
rupted ;  but  I  mean  a  company  of  warm  young  men,  who  are  not 
arrived  so  far  as  to  discern  the  difference  between  fustian  or  osten- 

tatious sentences,  and  the  true  sublime. 

Dedication  of  the 


X.     DRYDEN'S    OUTFIT    IN    CRITICISM2 

When  I  was  myself  in  the  rudiments  of  my  poetry,  without 
name  or  reputation  in  the  world,  having  rather  the  ambition  of 
a  writer  than  the  skill  ;  when  I  was  drawing  the  outlines  of 
an  art,  without  any  living  master  to  instruct  me  in  it  ;  —  an  art 
which  had  been  better  praised  than  studied  here  in  England, 
wherein  Shakespeare,  who  created  the  stage  among  us,  had  rather 
written  happily  than  knowingly  and  justly,  and  Jonson  who  by 
studying  Horace,  had  been  acquainted  with  the  rules,  yet  seemed 
to  envy  to  posterity  that  knowledge,  and,  like  an  inventor  of  some 
useful  art,  to  make  a  monopoly  of  his  learning  —  when  thus,  as 
I  may  say,  before  the  use  of  the  loadstone,  or  knowledge  of 

1  Dorset. 

2  Note  that  Dryden  here  (writing  in  1693)  says  nothing  about  any  indebtedness 
earlier  or  later  to  Spanish  critics  (cf.  p.  136). 


HIS  MASTERS  IN  PROSODY  165 

the  compass,  I  was  sailing  in  a  vast  ocean,  without  other  help  than 
the  polestar  of  the  Ancients,  and  the  rules  of  the  French  stage 
amongst  the  Moderns,  which  are  extremely  different  from  ours,  by 
reason  of  their  opposite  taste  :  —  yet  even  then  I  had  the  presumption 
to  dedicate  to  your  Lordship  a  very  unfinished  piece  I  confess,  and 
which  can  only  be  excused  by  the  little  experience  of  the  author  and 

the  modesty  of  the  title  An  Essaii.1  n-  •      e  .. 

•>  y  Discourse  concerning  satire. 

XL     HIS   MASTERS  IN   PROSODY 

I  hope  I  have  translated  closely  enough,  and  given  them2  the 
same  turn  of  verse  which  they  had  in  the  original ;  and  this  I  may 
say,  without  vanity,  is  not  the  talent  of  every  poet.  He  who  has 
arrived  the  nearest  to  it,  is  the  ingenious  and  learned  Sandys, 
the  best  versifier  of  the  former  age ;  if  I  may  properly  call  it 
by  that  name,  which  was  the  former  part  of  this  concluding 
century.  For  Spenser  and  Fairfax  both  flourished  in  the  reign  of 
Queen  Elizabeth ;  great  masters  in  our  lan'guage,  and  who  saw 
much  further  into  the  beauties  of  our  numbers,  than  those  who 
immediately  followed  them.  Milton  was  the  poetical  son  of 
Spenser,  and  Mr.  Waller  of  Fairfax ;  for  we  have  our  lineal 
descents  and  clans  as  well  as  other  families.  Spenser  more  than 
once  insinuates,  that  the  soul  of  Chaucer  was  transfused  into  his 
body;*  and  that  he  was  begotten  by  him  two  hundred  years  after 
his  decease.  Milton  has  acknowledged  to  me,  that  Spenser  was  his 
original ;  and  many  besides  myself  have  heard  our  famous  Waller 
own,  that  he  derived  the  harmony  of  his  numbers  from  Godfrey 
of  Bulloigne,  which  was  turned  into  English  by  Mr.  Fairfax. 

Preface  to  Fables. 

XII.     CHAUCER 

It  remains  that  I  say  somewhat  of  Chaucer  in  particular. 
In  the  first  place,  as  he  is  the  father  of  English  poetry,  so  I  hold 
him  in  the  same  degree  of  veneration  as  the  Grecians  held  Homer, 

1  I.e.,  of  Dramatic  Poesy.  2  The  Ovidian  passages. 

*  I  cannot  find  any  such  passages  in  Spenser  as  are  here  alluded  to.  —  SCOTT. 
Dry  den  often  writes  loosely :  he  thought  no  doubt  of  F.  Q. ,  IV.  2.  xxxiv.  7. 


166  DRYDEN 

or  the  Romans  Virgil.  He  is  a  perpetual  fountain  of  good  sense ; 
learned  in  all  sciences ;  and,  therefore,  speaks  properly  on  all 
subjects.  As  he  knew  what  to  say,  so  he  knows  also  when  to 
leave  off;  a  continence  which  is  practised  by  few  writers,  and 
scarcely  by  any  of  the  ancients,  excepting  Virgil  and  Horace.  One 
of  our  late  great  poets  l  is  sunk  in  his  reputation,  because  he  could 
never  forgive  any  conceit  which  came  in  his  way ;  but  swept,  like 
a  drag-net,  great  and  small.  There  was  plenty  enough,  but  the 
dishes  were  ill  sorted ;  whole  pyramids  of  sweetmeats  for  boys  and 
women,  but  little  of  solid  meat  for  men.  All  this  proceeded  not 
from  any  want  of  knowledge,  but  of  judgment.  Neither  did 
he  want  that  in  discerning  the  beauties  and  faults  of  other  poets, 
but  only  indulged  himself  in  the  luxury  of  writing;  and  perhaps 
knew  it  was  a  fault,  but  hoped  the  reader  would  not  find  it.  For 
this  reason,  though  he  must  always  be  thought  a  great  poet,  he 
is  no  longer  esteemed  a  good  writer;  and  for  ten  impressions, 
which  his  works  have  had  in  so  many  successive  years,  yet  at 
present  a  hundred  books  are  scarcely  purchased  once  a  twelve- 
month; for,  as  my  last  Lord  Rochester  said,  though  somewhat  pro- 
fanely, "  Not  being  of  God,  he  could  not  stand." 

Chaucer  followed  nature  everywhere,  but  was  never  so  bold 
to  go  beyond  her ;  and  there  is  a  great  difference  of  being  poeta 
and  nimis  poeta,  if  we  may  believe  Catullus,2  as  much  as  betwixt  a 
modest  behaviour  and  affectation.  The  verse  of  Chaucer,  I  con- 
fess, is  not  harmonious  to  us;  but  it  is  like  the  eloquence  of 
one  whom  Tacitus  commends,  it  was  auribus  istius  temporis 
accommodata.  They  who  lived  with  him,  and  some  time  after  him, 
thought  it  musical;  and  it  continues  so,  even  in  our  judgment, 
if  compared  with  the  numbers  of  Lydgate  and  Gower,  his  con- 
temporaries :  —  there  is  the  rude  sweetness  of  a  Scotch  tune  in  it, 
which  is  natural  and  pleasing,  though  not  perfect.  It  is  true, 
I  cannot  go  so  far  as  he  who  published  the  last  edition  of  him ;  for 
he  would  make  us  believe  the  fault  is  in  our  ears,  and  that  there 
were  really  ten  syllables  in  a  verse  where  we  find  but  nine: 
but  this  opinion  is  not  worth  confuting ;  it  is  so  gross  and  obvious 
an  error,  that  common  sense  (which  is  a  rule  in  everything  but 

1  Cowley.  2  Not  Catullus,  but  Martial,  iii.  44. 


CHAUCER  167 

matters  of  faith  and  revelation)  must  convince  the  reader,  that 
equality  of  numbers,  in  every  verse  which  we  call  heroic,  was 
either  not  known,  or  not  always  practised,  in  Chaucer's  age. 
It  were  an  easy  matter  to  produce  some  thousands  of  his  verses, 
which  are  lame  for  want  of  half  a  foot,  and  sometimes  a  whole  one, 
and  which  no  pronunciation  can  make  otherwise.  We  can  only  say, 
that  he  lived  in  the  infancy  of  our  poetry,  and  that  nothing  is 
brought  to  perfection  at  the  first.  We  must  be  children  before  we 
grow  men.  There  was  an  Ennius,  and  in  process  of  time  a 
Lucilius,  and  a  Lucretius,  before  Virgil  and  Horace  ;  even  after 
Chaucer  there  was  a  Spenser,  a  Harrington,  a  Fairfax,  before 
Waller  and  Denham  were  in  being ;  and  our  numbers  were  in  their 
nonage  till  these  last  appeared. 

He  must  have  been  a  man  of  a  most  wonderful  comprehensive 
nature,  because,  as  it  has  been  truly  observed  of  him,  he  has  taken 
into  the  compass  of  his  Canterbury  Tales  the  various  manners 
and  humours  (as  we  now  call  them)  of  the  whole  English  nation, 
in  his  age.  Not  a  single  character  has  escaped  him.  All  his 
pilgrims  are  severally  distinguished  from  each  other ;  and  not  only 
in  their  inclinations,  but  in  their  very  physiognomies  and  persons. 
Baptista  Porta 1  could  not  have  described  their  natures  better,  than 
by  the  marks  which  the  poet  gives  them.  The  matter  and  manner 
of  their  tales,  and  of  their  telling,  are  so  suited  to  their  different 
educations,  humours,  and  callings,  that  each  of  them  would  be 
improper  in  any  other  mouth.  Even  the  grave  and  serious  char- 
acters are  distinguished  by  their  several  sorts  of  gravity :  their 
discourses  are  such  as  belong  to  their  age,  their  calling,  and  their 
breeding ;  such  as  are  becoming  of  them,  and  of  them  only.  Some 
of  his  persons  are  vicious,  and  some  virtuous ;  some  are  unlearned, 
or  (as  Chaucer  calls  them)  lewd,  and  some  are  learned.  Even  the 
ribaldry  of  the  low  characters  is  different :  the  Eeeve,  the  Miller, 
and  the  Cook,  are  several  men,  and  distinguished  from  each  other 
as  much  as  the  mincing  Lady-Prioress  and  the  broad-speaking,  gap- 
toothed  Wife  of  Bath.  But  enough  of  this  ;  there  is  such  a  variety 
of  game  springing  up  before  me,  that  I  am  distracted  in  my  choice, 

1  The  famous  Italian  physiognomist. 


168  DRYDEN 

and  know  not  which  to  follow.  It  is  sufficient  to  say,  according  to 
the  proverb,  that  here  is  God's  plenty.  We  have  our  forefathers 
and  great-grand-dames  all  before  us,  as  they  were  in  Chaucer's 
days :  their  general  characters  are  still  remaining  in  mankind,  and 
even  in  England,  though  they  are  called  by  other  names  than  those 
of  monks,  and  friars,  and  canons,  and  lady-abbesses,  and  nuns ;  for 
mankind  is  ever  the  same,  and  nothing  lost  out  of  nature,  though 
everything  is  altered.  May  I  have  leave  to  do  myself  the  justice, 
(since  my  enemies  will  do  me  none,  and  are  so  far  from  granting 
me  to  be  a  good  poet,  that  they  will  not  allow  me  so  much  as  to  be 
a  Christian,  or  a  moral  man),  may  I  have  leave,  I  say,  to  inform 
my  reader,  that  I  have  confined  my  choice  to  such  tales  of  Chaucer 
as  savour  nothing  of  immodesty.  If  I  had  desired  more  to  please 
than  to  instruct,  the  Eeeve,  the  Miller,  the  Shipman,  the  Mer- 
chant, the  Sumner,  and,  above  all,  the  Wife  of  Bath,  in  the 
prologue  to  her  tale,  would  have  procured  me  as  many  friends  and 
readers,  as  there  are  beaux  and  ladies  of  pleasure  in  the  town. 
But  I  will  no  more  offend  against  good  manners.  I  am  sensible,  as 
I  ought  to  be,  of  the  scandal  I  have  given  by  my  loose  writings ; 
and  make  what  reparation  I  am  able,  by  this  public  acknowledg- 
ment. If  anything  of  this  nature,  or  of  profaneness,  be  crept  into 
these  poems,  I  am  so  far  from  defending  it,  that  I  disown  it,  totum 
hoc  indicium  volo.  Chaucer  makes  another  manner  of  apology  for 
his  broad  speaking,  and  Boccace  makes  the  like ;  but  I  will  follow 
neither  of  them.  Our  countryman,  in  the  end  of  his  characters, 
before  the  Canterbury  Tales,  thus  excuses  the  ribaldry,  which  is 
very  gross  in  many  of  his  novels  — 

But  firste,  I  praie  you  of  your  curtesie, 
That  ye  ne  arette  it  not  my  vilanie 
Though  that  I  plainly  speke  in  this  matere, 
To  tellen  you  hir  wordes,  and  hir  chere : 
Ne  though  I  speke  hir  wordes  proprely, 
For  this  ye  knowen  al  so  well  as  I, 
Who  so  shall  telle  a  tale  after  a  man, 
He  moste  reherse  as  neighe  as  ever  he  can : 
Everich  word,  if  it  be  in  his  charge, 
All  speke  he,  never  so  rudely  and  so  large: 
Or  elles  he  moste  tellen  his  tale  untrewe, 


CHAUCER  169 

Or  feinen  thinges,  or  finden  wordes  newe: 

He  may  not  spare,  although  he  were  his  brother, 

He  moste  as  wel  sayn  o  word  as  an  other. 

Crist  spake  himself  ful  brode  in  holy  writ, 

And  wel  ye  wote  no  vilanie  is  it, 

Eke  Plato  sayeth,  who  so  can  him  rede, 

The  wordes  moste  ben  cosin  to  the  dede. 

Yet  if  a  man  should  have  enquired  of  Boccace  or  of  Chaucer, 
what  need  they  had  of  introducing  such  characters,  where  obscene 
words  were  proper  in  their  mouths,  but  very  indecent  to  be  heard? 
I  know  not  what  answer  they  could  have  made ;  for  that  reason, 
such  tales  shall  be  left  untold  by  me.  You  have  here  a  specimen 
of  Chaucer's  language,  which  is  so  obsolete,  that  his  sense  is  scarce 
to  be  understood  ;  and  you  have  likewise  more  than  one  example  of 
his  unequal  numbers,  which  were  mentioned  before.  Yet  many  of 
his  verses  consist  of  ten  syllables,  and  the  words  not  much  behind 
our  present  English :  as  for  example,  these  two  lines,  in  the 
description  of  the  carpenter's  young  wife  — 

Winsing  she  was,  as  is  a  jolly  colt, 
Long  as  a  mast,  and  upright  as  a  bolt. 

I  have  almost  done  with  Chaucer,  when  I  have  answered  some 
objections  relating  to  my  present  work.  I  find  some  people  are 
offended  that  I  have  turned  these  tales  into  modern  English; 
because  they  think  them  unworthy  of  my  pains,  and  look  on 
Chaucer  as  a  dry,  old-fashioned  wit,  not  worthy  reviving.  I  have 
often  heard  the  late  Earl  of  Leicester  say,  that  Mr.  Cowley  him- 
self was  of  that  opinion ;  who,  having  read  him  over  at  my  lord's 
request,  declared  he  had  no  taste  of  him.  I  dare  not  advance  my 
opinion  against  the  judgment  of  so  great  an  author;  but  I  think 
it  fair,  however,  to  leave  the  decision  to  the  public.  Mr.  Cowley 
was  too  modest  to  set  up  for  a  dictator;  and  being  shocked  perhaps 
with  his  old  style,  never  examined  into  the  depth  of  his  good  sense. 
Chaucer,  I  confess,  is  a  rough  diamond,  and  must  first  be  pol- 
ished, ere  he  shines.  I  deny  not  likewise,  that,  living  in  our  early 
days  of  poetry,  he  writes  not  always  of  a  piece;  but  sometimes 
mingles  trivial  things  with  those  of  greater  moment.  Sometimes 
also,  though  not  often,  he  runs  riot,  like  Ovid,  and  knows  not 


170  DRYDEN 

when  he  has  said  enough.  But  there  are  more  great  wits  besides 
Chaucer,  whose  fault  is  their  excess  of  conceits,  and  those  ill  sorted. 
An  author  is  not  to  write  all  he  can,  but  only  all  he  ought.  Hav- 
ing observed  this  redundancy  in  Chaucer,  (as  it  is  an  easy  matter 
for  a  man  of  ordinary  parts  to  find  a  fault  in  one  of  greater,)  I  have 
not  tied  myself  to  a  literal  translation ;  but  have  often  omitted  what 
I  judged  unnecessary,  or  not  of  dignity  enough  to  appear  in  the 
company  of  better  thoughts.  I  have  presumed  further,  in  some 
places,  and  added  somewhat  of  my  own  where  I  thought  my  author 
was  deficient,  and  had  not  given  his  thoughts  their  true  lustre,  for 
want  of  words  in  the  beginning  of  our  language.  And  to  this  I  was 
the  more  emboldened,  because  (if  I  may  be  permitted  to  say  it  of 
myself)  I  found  I  had  a  soul  congenial  to  his,  and  that  I  had  been 
conversant  in  the  same  studies.  Another  poet,  in  another  age,  may 
take  the  same  liberty  with  my  writings ;  if  at  least  they  live  long 
enough  to  deserve  correction.  It  was  also  necessary  sometimes  to 
restore  the  sense  of  Chaucer,  which  was  lost  or  mangled  in  the 
errors  of  the  press.  Let  this  example  suffice  at  present :  in  the 
story  of  Palamon  and  Arcite,  where  the  temple  of  Diana  is  described, 
you  find  these  verses,  in  all  the  editions  of  our  author  — 

Ther  saw  I  Dane  yturned  til  a  tree, 
I  inene  not  hire  the  goddesse  Diane, 
But  Venus  daughter,  which  that  hight  Dane 

which,  after  a  little  consideration,  I  knew  was  to  be  reformed  into 
this  sense,  —  that  Daphne,  the  daughter  of  Peneus,  was  turned 
into  a  tree.  I  durst  not  make  thus  bold  with  Ovid,  lest  some 
future  Milbourne  should  arise,  and  say,  I  varied  from  my  author, 
because  I  understood  him  not. 

But  there  are  other  judges,  who  think  I  ought  not  to  have 
translated  Chaucer  into  English,  out  of  a  quite  contrary  notion  : 
they  suppose  there  is  a  certain  veneration  due  to  his  old  language ; 
and  that  it  is  little  less  than  profanation  and  sacrilege  to  alter  it. 
They  are  further  of  opinion,  that  somewhat  of  his  good  sense  will 
suffer  in  this  transfusion,  and  much  of  the  beauty  of  his  thoughts 
will  infallibly  be  lost,  which  appear  with  more  grace  in  their 
old  habit.  Of  this  opinion  was  that  excellent  person,  whom  I 


CHAUCER  171 

mentioned,  the  late  Earl  of  Leicester,  who  valued  Chaucer  as  much 
as  Mr.  Cowley  despised  him.  My  lord  dissuaded  me  from  this 
attempt,  (for  I  was  thinking  of  it  some  years  before  his  death,) 
and  his  authority  prevailed  so  far  with  me,  as  to  defer  my  undertak- 
ing while  he  lived,  in  deference  to  him :  yet  my  reason  was  not 
convinced  with  what  he  urged  against  it.  If  the  first  end  of  a 
writer  be  to  be  understood,  then,  as  his  language  grows  obsolete 
his  thoughts  must  grow  obscure  — 

Multa  renascentur,  quse  nunc  cecidere ;  cadentque 
Quae  nunc  sunt  in  honore  vocabula,  si  volet  usus, 
Quem  penes  arbitrium  est  et  jus  et  norma  loquendi. 

When  an  ancient  word,  for  its  sound  and  significancy,  deserves 
to  be  revived,  I  have  that  reasonable  veneration  for  antiquity 
to  restore  it.  All  beyond  this  is  superstition.  Words  are  not  like 
landmarks,  so  sacred  as  never  to  be  removed;  customs  are  changed, 
and  even  statutes  are  silently  repealed,  when  the  reason  ceases  for 
which  they  were  enacted.  As  for  the  other  part  of  the  argument, 
—  that  his  thoughts  will  lose  of  their  original  beauty  by  the 
innovation  of  words, — in  the  first  place,  not  only  their  beauty, 
but  their  being  is  lost,  where  they  are  no  longer  understood,  which 
is  the  present  case.  I  grant  that  something  must  be  lost  in  all 
transfusion,  that  is,  in  all  translations  ;  but  the  sense  will  remain, 
which  would  otherwise  be  lost,  or  at  least  be  maimed,  when  it 
is  scarce  intelligible,  and  that  but  to  a  few.  How  few  are  there, 
who  can  read  Chaucer,  so  as  to  understand  him  perfectly  ?  And  if 
imperfectly,  then  with  less  profit,  and  no  pleasure.  It  is  not  for 
the  use  of  some  old  Saxon  friends,  that  I  have  taken  these  pains 
with  him :  let  them  neglect  my  version,  because  they  have  no  need 
of  it.  I  made  it  for  their  sakes,  who  understand  sense  and  poetry 
as  well  as  they,  when  that  poetry  and  sense  is  put  into  words  which 
they  understand.  I  will  go  further,  and  dare  to  add,  that  what 
beauties  I  lose  in  some  places,  I  give  to  others  which  had  them  not 
originally :  but  in  this  I  may  be  partial  to  myself ;  let  the  reader 
judge,  and  I  submit  to  his  decision.  Yet  I  think  I  have  just 
occasion  to  complain  of  them,  who,  because  they  understand 
Chaucer,  would  deprive  the  greater  part  of  their  countrymen  of 


172  DRYDEN 

the  same  advantage,  and  hoard  him  up,  as  misers  do  their  grandam 
gold,  only  to  look  on  it  themselves,  and  hinder  others  from  making 
use  of  it.  In  sum,  I  seriously  protest,  that  no  man  ever  had,  or 
can  have,  a  greater  veneration  for  Chaucer  than  myself.  I  have 
translated  some  part  of  his  works,  only  that  I  might  perpetuate 
his  memory,  or  at  least  refresh  it,  amongst  my  countrymen.  If 
I  have  altered  him  anywhere  for  the  better,  I  must  at  the  same 
time  acknowledge,  that  I  could  have  done  nothing  without  him. 
Facile  est  inventis  addere  is  no  great  commendation ;  and  I  am  not 

so  vain  to  think  I  have  deserved  a  greater. 

Preface  to  Fables. 


XX 

BYSSHE'S    "ART   OF  POETKY" 

The  Art  of  Poetry  (with  a  Dictionary  of  Rhymes  and  a  methodical 
anthology  of  passages  for  imitation)  of  Edward  Bysshe,  first  published  in 
the  year  of  Dryden's  death  (or  in  1702  ?),  is  not  a  work  of  literature.  But  it 
was  constantly  reprinted ;  in  spite  of  the  sneers  of  Gildon  (who  came  a  little 
later  with  a  more  elaborate  and  pretentious  work  on  the  same  subject)  it 
enjoyed  popularity,  and  exercised  influence,  throughout  the  18th  century; 
and  the  metrical  laws  to  be  here  quoted  were  accepted,  in  their  peremptory 
and  almost  Athanasian  rigour,  with  docility  by  the  orthodox,  from  Johnson 
to  the  least  poetaster,  during  that  time.  They  clearly  influenced  even  such 
a  man  as  Guest,  who  died  but  a  couple  of  decades  from  the  beginning  of 
the  20th,  and  it  would  be  rash  to  say  that  suspicions  of  their  orthodoxy 
after  all  do  not  lurk  here  and  there  at  the  present  moment.  The  editions 
of  the  book,  I  believe,  vary  somewhat.  The  following  quotations  are  taken 
from  the  Third  "with  large  improvements"  (London  1708). 

I  have  inserted  not  only  similes,  allusions,  characters  and  descrip- 
tions ;  but  also  the  most  natural  and  sublime  thoughts  of  our  modern 
poets  on  all  subjects  whatever.  I  say,  of  our  modern,  for  though 
some  of  the  ancient,  as  Chaucer,  Spenser  and  others,  have  not  been 
excelled,  perhaps  not  equalled,  by  any  that  have  succeeded  them, 
either  in  justness  of  description,  or  in  propriety  and  greatness  of 
thought :  yet  their  language  is  now  become  so  antiquated  and  obso- 
lete that  most  readers  of  our  age  have  no  ear  for  them.  And  this  is 
the  reason  that  the  good  Shakespeare  himself  is  not  so  frequently 
cited  in  this  collection  as  he  would  otherwise  deserve  to  be. 

Preface. 

The  structure  of  our  verses,  whether  blank  or  in  rhyme,  consists 
in  a  certain  number  of  syllables ;  not  in  feet  composed  of  long  and 
short  syllables,  as  the  verses  of  the  Greeks  and  Romans. 

Chap,  i,  opening. 
173 


174  BYSSHE'S   "ART  OF  POETRY" 

i 

Verses  of  double  rhyme  require  a  syllable  more  than  those  of 
single  rhyme.  .  .  .  This  must  also  be  observed  in  blank  verse.  .  .  . 
And  this  verse  of  Milton, 

Void  of  all  succour  and  needful  comfort, 

wants  a  syllable,  for,  being  accented  on  the  last  save  one,  it  ought 
to  have  11.  ibid. 

Our  poetry  admits,  for  the  most  part,  but  of  three  sorts  of  verses  : 
that  is  to  say  of  verses  of  10,  8,  or  7  syllables.  Chap,  i  §  1. 

In  these  [heroic]  verses  two  things  are  chiefly  to  be  considered  : 

1.  The  seat  of  the  accent. 

2.  The  pause.  Hid. 

In  a  verse  of  10  syllables  this  [strongest]  accent  must  be  either 
at  the  2d,  4th,  or  6th :  which  produces  5  several  pauses,  that  is  to 
say  at  the  3d,  4th,  5th,  6th,  or  7th  syllable.  jbid. 

The  Construction  or  Sense  should  never  end  at  a  syllable  where 
the  pause  ought  not  to  be  made ;  as  at  the  8th  and  9th.  ...  So 
unequal  a  division  can  produce  no  true  harmony;  and  for  this  reason, 
too,  the  pauses  at  the  3d  and  7th  syllables,  though  not  wholly  to 
be  condemned,  ought  to  be  but  sparingly  practised.  Ibid. 

The  foregoing  rules  [of  accent  on  the  even  places,  and.  pause  MAINLY 
at  the  4th,  5th,  or  6th  syllable']  ought  indispensably  to  be  followed 
in  all  our  verses  of  10  syllables ;  and  the  observation  of  them  will 
produce  Harmony,  the  neglect  of  them  harshness  and  discord. 

Ibid. 

The  verses  of  9  and  of  11  syllables  are  of  two  sorts ;  one  is 
those  that  are  accented  on  the  last  save  one,  which  are  only  the 
verses  of  double  rhyme  that  belong  to  those  of  8  and  10  syllables. . . . 
The  other  is  those  that  are  accented  on  the  last  syllable,1  which 
are  employed  only  in  compositions  for  music,  and  in  the  lowest 
sort  of  burlesque  poetry,  the  disagreeableness  of  their  measure 
having  wholly  excluded  them  from  grave  and  serious  subjects. 

Chap,  i  §  2. 
1  I.e.,  anapaestic  lines  with  anacrusis,  or  with  dissyllabic  substitution. 


BYSSHE'S  "ART   OF  POETRY"  175 

Our  poetry  being  very  much  polished  and  refined  since  the  days 
of  Chaucer,  Spenser,  and  the  other  ancient  poets,  some  rules  which 
they  neglected  .  .  .  have  been  practised  by  the  best  of  the  moderns. 

The  first  is  to  avoid,  as  much  as  possible,  the  concourse  of 
vowels.  .  .  .  The  e  of  the  particle  the  ought  always  to  be  cut  off 
before  words  that  begin  with  a  vowel. 

The  second  [is]  to  contract  the  two  last  syllables  of  the  Preter- 
perfect  tenses  of  all  the  verbs  that  will  admit  of  it. ...  It  is  a  fault 
to  make  amazed  of  three  syllables  and  loved  of  two.  .  .  .  The  sec- 
ond person  of  the  Present  and  Preterperfect  tenses  of  all  verbs  ought 
to  be  contracted  in  like  manner,  as  thou  lov'st,  for  thou  lovest.  .  .  . 

The  third  Rule  is,  not  to  make  use  of  several  words  in  a  verse 
that  begin  by  the  same  letter. 

The  fourth  is  to  avoid  ending  a  verse  by  an  adjective,  when  a 
substantive  begins  the  following.  .  .  . 

The  fifth  is  to  avoid  the  frequent  use  of  words  of  many  syllables. 

Chap,  i  §  3. 

Beauteous  is  but  two  syllables,  victorious  but  three ;  and  it  is  a 
fault  in  Dryden  to  make  it  four.  Chap  i  8  4 

But  if  the  accent  be  upon  the  first  syllable  ...  it  is  a  fault  to 
make  riot  one  syllable,  as  Milton  has  done  in  this  verse, 

Their  riot  ascends  above  their  lofty  towers. 

Ibid. 

Bysshe,  as  might  be  expected,  is  very  copious  on  what  he  calls  "  Elis- 
ion," by  which  he,  like  other  writers  of  his  period,  means  not  merely 
elision  proper,  but  the  omission  of  a  middle  syllable,  or  the  cutting  off  of 
an  initial.  He  fully  approves  the  hideous  things  —  am'rous,  endeau'ring, 
t' amuse,  she's,  you've, — which  disfigure  orthodox  18th  century  poetry 
as  results  of  the  frantic  endeavour  to  stifle  trisyllabic  feet. 

Our  ancient  poets  frequently  made  use  of  intermixed  rhyme  in 
their  heroic  poems,  which  they  disposed  into  stanzas  and  cantos.  .  .  . 
But  this  is  now  wholly  laid  aside.  Chap  iii  §  2. 


176  BYSSHE'S  "ART  OF  POETRY" 

Except  in  the  contemptuous  reference  to  catalectic  or  otherwise  incom- 
plete anapaestic  verse  cited  above,  it  is  to  be  noticed  that  Bysshe  never 
mentions  "  triple  time  "  measures  at  all.  The  beautiful  lyrics  in  Dryden's 
plays,  the  charming  vers  de  societe  which  Prior  and  others  had  already 
begun  to  write,  all  apparently  —  and  beyond  reasonable  doubt  really  — 
underlay  in  his  mind  the  charge  of  "  disagreeableness  of  measure." 


XXI 

ADDISON 

I.     TRUE   AND  FALSE   WIT1 

SPECTATOR,  No.  62.    Friday,  May  11,  1711. 
Scribendi  recte  sapere  est  et  principium  et  fons.  —  HORACE. 

Mr.  Locke  has  an  admirable  reflexion  upon  the  difference  of 
Wit  and  Judgment,  whereby  he  endeavours  to  shew  the  reason 
why  they  are  not  always  the  talents  of  the  same  person.  His 
words  are  as  follows  :  And  hence,  perhaps,  may  be  given  some  reason 
of  that  common  observation,  That  men  who  have  a  great  deal  of  wit 
and  prompt  memories,  have  not  always  the  clearest  judgment,  or  deep- 
est reason.  For  Wit  lying  most  in  the  assemblage  of  ideas,  and 
putting  those  together  with  quickness  and  variety,  wherein  can  be  found 
any  resemblance  or  congruity,  thereby  to  make  up  pleasant  pictures 
and  agreeable  visions  in  the  fancy ;  Judgment,  on  the  contrary,  lies 
quite  on  the  other  side,  in  separating  carefully  one  from  another, 
ideas  wherein  can  be  found  the  least  difference,  thereby  to  avoid  being 
misled  by  similitude,  and  by  affinity  to  take  one  thing  for  another. 
This  is  a  way  of  proceeding  quite  contrary  to  Metaphor  and  Allusion  ; 
wherein,  for  the  most  part,  lies  that  entertainment  and  pleasantry  of 
wit  which  strikes  so  lively  on  the  fancy,  and  is  therefore  so  acceptable 
to  all  people. 

This  is,  I  think,  the  best  and  most  philosophical  account  that  I 
have  ever  met  with  of  Wit,  which  generally,  though  not  always, 
consists  in  such  a  resemblance  and  congruity  of  ideas  as  this  author 
mentions.  I  shall  only  add  to  it,  by  way  of  explanation,  that  every 

1  This  paper  is  preceded  by  several  others  attacking  fantastically  shaped 
verses,  bouts-rim^s,  acrostics,  anagrams,  puns,  etc. ,  and  followed  by  a  Vision  of 
Falsehood  embodying  the  lesson  in  Addison's  favourite  manner. 

177 


178  ADDISON 

resemblance  of  ideas  is  not  that  which  we  call  Wit,  unless  it  be 
such  an  one  that  gives  delight  and  surprise  to  the  reader :  these  two 
properties  seem  essential  to  Wit,  more  particularly  the  last  of  them. 
In  order  therefore  that  the  resemblance  in  the  ideas  be  Wit,  it  is 
necessary  that  the  ideas  should  not  lie  too  near  one  another  in  the 
nature  of  things;  for  where  the  likeness  is  obvious,  it  gives  no 
surprise.  To  compare  one  man's  singing  to  that  of  another,  or  to 
represent  the  whiteness  of  any  object  by  that  of  milk  and  snow,  or 
the  variety  of  its  colours  by  those  of  the  rainbow,  cannot  be  called 
Wit,  unless  besides  this  obvious  resemblance,  there  be  some  further 
congruity  discovered  in  the  two  ideas  that  is  capable  of  giving  the 
reader  some  surprise.  Thus  when  a  poet  tells  us,  the  bosom  of  his 
mistress  is  as  white  as  snow,  there  is  no  Wit  in  the  comparison ; 
but  when  he  adds,  with  a  sigh,  that  it  is  as  cold  too,  it  then  grows 
into  Wit.  Every  reader's  memory  may  supply  him  with  innumer- 
able instances  of  the  same  nature.  For  this  reason,  the  similitudes 
in  heroic  poets,  who  endeavour  rather  to  fill  the  mind  with  great 
conceptions,  than  to  divert  it  with  such  as  are  new  and  surprising, 
have  seldom  any  thing  in  them  that  can  be  called  Wit.  Mr.  Locke's 
account  of  Wit,  with  this  short  explanation,  comprehends  most  of 
the  species  of  Wit,  as  metaphors,  similitudes,  allegories,  enigmas, 
mottos,  parables,  fables,  dreams,  visions,  dramatic  writings,  burl- 
esque, and  all  the  methods  of  allusion:  as  there  are  many  other 
pieces  of  Wit  (how  remote  soever  they  may  appear  at  first  sight, 
from  the  foregoing  description)  which  upon  examination  will  be 
found  to  agree  with  it. 

As  true  Wit  generally  consists  in  this  resemblance  and  congruity  of 
ideas,  false  Wit  chiefly  consists  in  the  resemblance  and  congruity 
sometimes  of  single  letters,  as  in  anagrams,  chronograms,  lipograms, 
and  acrostics :  sometimes  of  syllables,  as  in  echoes  and  doggerel 
rhymes :  sometimes  of  words,  as  in  puns  and  quibbles  ;  and  some- 
times of  whole  sentences  or  poems,  cast  into  the  figures  of  eggs,  axes, 
or  altars :  nay,  some  carry  the  notion  of  Wit  so  far,  as  to  ascribe  it 
even  to  external  mimicry ;  and  to  look  upon  a  man  as  an  ingenious 
person,  that  can  resemble  the  tone,  posture,  or  face  of  another. 

As  true  Wit  consists  in  the  resemblance  of  ideas,  and  false  Wit 
in  the  resemblance  of  words,  according  to  the  foregoing  instances  ; 


TRUE  AND  FALSE   WIT  179 

there  is  another  kind  of  Wit  which  consists  partly  in  the  resembl- 
ance of  ideas,  and  partly  in  the  resemblance  of  words ;  which  for 
distinction  sake  I  shall  call  mixt  Wit.  This  kind  of  Wit  is  that 
which  abounds  in  Cowley,  more  than  in  any  author  that  ever  wrote. 
Mr.  Waller  has  likewise  a  great  deal  of  it.  Mr.  Dryden  is  very 
sparing  in  it.  Milton  had  a  genius  much  above  it.  Spenser  is 
in  the  same  class  with  Milton.  The  Italians,  even  in  their  Epic 
poetry,  are  full  of  it.  Monsieur  Boileau,  who  formed  himself  upon 
the  ancient  poets,  has  every  where  rejected  it  with  scorn.  If  we 
look  after  mixt  Wit  among  the  Greek  writers,  we  shall  find  it 
no  where  but  in  the  Epigrammatists.  There  are  indeed  some 
strokes  of  it  in  the  little  poem  ascribed  to  Musseus,  which  by  that, 
as  well  as  many  other  marks,  betrays  iteelf  to  be  a  modern  composi- 
tion. If  we  look  into  the  Latin  writers,  we  find  none  of  this 
mixt  Wit  in  Virgil,  Lucretius,  or  Catullus ;  very  little  in  Horace, 
but  a  great  deal  of  it  in  Ovid,  and  scarce  any  thing  else  in  Martial. 
Out  of  the  innumerable  branches  of  mixt  Wit,  I  shall  choose 
one  instance  which  may  be  met  with  in  all  the  writers  of  this  class. 
The  passion  of  love  in  its  nature  has  been  thought  to  resemble  fire  ; 
for  which  reason  the  words  fire  and  flame  are  made  use  of  to  signify 
love.  The  witty  poets  therefore  have  taken  an  advantage  from 
the  doubtful  meaning  of  the  word  fire,  to  make  an  infinite  number 
of  witticisms.  Cowley  observing  the  cold  regard  of  his  mistress's 
eyes,  and  at  the  same  time  their  power  of  producing  love  in  him, 
considers  them  as  burning-glasses  made  of  ice ;  and  finding  himself 
able  to  live  in  the  greatest  extremities  of  love,  concludes  the  Torrid 
Zone  to  be  habitable.  When  his  mistress  has  read  his  letter  written 
in  juice  of  lemon  by  holding  it  to  the  fire,  he  desires  her  to  read  it 
over  a  second  time  by  love's  flames.  When  she  weeps,  he  wishes 
it  were  inward  heat  that  distilled  those  drops  from  the  limbeck. 
When  she  is  absent  he  is  beyond  eighty,  that  is,  thirty  degrees 
nearer  the  Pole  than  when  she  is  with  him.  His  ambitious  love  is 
a  fire  that  naturally  mounts  upwards ;  his  happy  love  is  the  beams 
of  Heaven,  and  his  unhappy  love  flames  of  Hell.  When  it  does 
not  let  him  sleep,  it  is  a  flame  that  sends  up  no  smoke ;  when  it  is 
opposed  by  counsel  and  advice,  it  is  a  fire  that  rages  the  more  by 
the  wind's  blowing  upon  it.  Upon  the  dying  of  a  tree  in  which  he 


180  ADDISON 

had  cut  his  loves,  he  observes  that  his  written  flames  had  burnt  up 
and  withered  the  tree.  When  he  resolves  to  give  over  his  passion,  he 
tells  us  that  one  burnt  like  him  for  ever  dreads  the  fire.  His  heart 
is  an  Etna,  that  instead  of  Vulcan's  shop  encloses  Cupid's  forge  in  it. 
His  endeavouring  to  drown  his  love  in  wine,  is  throwing  oil  upon 
the  fire.  He  would  insinuate  to  his  mistress,  that  the  fire  of  love, 
like  that  of  the  sun  (which  produces  so  many  living  creatures)  should 
not  only  warm  but  beget.  Love  in  another  place  cooks  Pleasure  at 
his  fire.  Sometimes  the  poet's  heart  is  frozen  in  every  breast,  and 
sometimes  scorched  in  every  eye.  Sometimes  he  is  drowned  in  tears, 
and  burnt  in  love,  like  a  ship  set  on  fire  in  the  middle  of  the  sea. 

The  reader  may  observe  in  every  one  of  these  instances,  that  the 
poet  mixes  the  qualities  of  fire  with  those  of  love  ;  and  in  the  same 
sentence  speaking  of  it  both  as  a  passion  and  as  real  fire,  surprises 
the  reader  with  those  seeming  resemblances  or  contradictious  that 
make  up  all  the  wit  in  this  kind  of  writing.  Mixt  Wit  therefore 
is  a  composition  of  pun  and  true  Wit,  and  is  more  or  less  perfect 
as  the  resemblance  lies  in  the  ideas  or  in  the  words  :  its  foundations 
are  laid  partly  in  falsehood  and  partly  in  truth :  Reason  puts  in 
her  claim  for  one  half  of  it,  and  Extravagance  for  the  other.  The 
only  province  therefore  for  this  kind  of  Wit,  is  epigram,  or  those 
little  occasional  poems  that  in  their  own  nature  are  nothing  else 
but  a  tissue  of  epigrams.  I  cannot  conclude  this  head  of  mixt 
Wit,  without  owning  that  the  admirable  poet  out  of  whom  I  have 
taken  the  examples  of  it,  had  as  much  true  Wit  as  any  author  that 
ever  writ;  and  indeed  all  other  talents  of  an  extraordinary  genius. 

It  may  be  expected,  since  I  am  upon  this  subject,  that  I  should 
take  notice  of  Mr.  Dryden's  definition  of  Wit ;  which,  with  all  the 
deference  that  is  due  to  the  judgment  of  so  great  a  man,  is  not  so 
properly  a  definition  of  Wit,  as  of  good  writing  in  general.  Wit, 
as  he  defines  it,  is  "  a  propriety  of  words  and  thoughts  adapted  to 
the  subject."  *  If  this  be  a  true  definition  of  Wit,  I  am  apt  to  think 

*  "  If  Wit  has  truly  been  defined  as  a  propriety  of  thoughts  and  words,  then 
that  definition  will  extend  to  all  sorts  of  poetry.  .  .  .  Propriety  of  thought  is  that 
fancy  which  arises  naturally  from  the  subject,  or  which  the  poet  adapts  to  it. 
Propriety  of  words  is  the  clothing  of  these  thoughts  with  such  expressions  as 
are  naturally  proper  to  them."  —  Dryden's  Preface  to  Albion  and  Albanius. 


TRUE  AND  FALSE  WIT  181 

that  Euclid  was  the  greatest  wit  that  ever  set  pen  to  paper :  it 
is  certain  that  never  was  a  greater  propriety  of  words  and  thoughts 
adapted  to  the  subject,  than  what  that  author  has  made  use  of  in 
his  Elements.  I  shall  only  appeal  to  my  reader,  if  this  definition 
agrees  with  any  notion  he  has  of  Wit :  if  it  be  a  true  one  I  am  sure 
Mr.  Dryden  was  not  only  a  better  poet,  but  a  greater  wit  than  Mr. 
Cowley ;  and  Virgil  a  much  more  facetious  man  than  either  Ovid 
or  Martial. 

Bouhours,  whom  I  look  upon  to  be  the  most  penetrating  of  all 
the  French  critics,  has  taken  pains  to  shew,  that  it  is  impossible 
for  any  thought  to  be  beautiful  which  is  not  just,  and  has  not  its 
foundation  in  the  nature  of  things :  that  the  basis  of  all  Wit  is 
truth;  and  that  no  thought  can  be  valuable,  of  which  good  sense  is 
not  the  ground-work.  Boileau  has  endeavoured  to  inculcate  the 
same  notions  in  several  parts  of  his  writings,  both  in  prose  and 
verse.  This  is  that  natural  way  of  writing,  that  beautiful  simplic- 
ity, which  we  so  much  admire  in  the  compositions  of  the  Ancients ; 
and  which  no  body  deviates  from,  but  those  who  want  strength  of 
genius  to  make  a  thought  shine  in  its  own  natural  beauties.  Poets 
who  want  this  strength  of  genius  to  give  that  majestic  simplicity 
to  Nature,  which  we  so  much  admire  in  the  works  of  the  Ancients, 
are  forced  to  hunt  after  foreign  ornaments,  and  not  to  let  any  piece 
of  Wit  of  what  kind  soever  escape  them.  I  look  upon  these  writers 
as  Goths  in  Poetry,  who,  like  those  in  Architecture,  not  being  able 
to  come  up  to  the  beautiful  simplicity  of  the  old  Greeks  and 
Romans,  have  endeavoured  to  supply  its  place  with  all  the  extra- 
vagancies of  an  irregular  fancy.  Mr.  Dryden  makes  a  very  handsome 
observation,  on  Ovid's  writing  a  letter  from  Dido  to  ^Eneas,  in  the 
following  words.  "  Ovid,"  says  he  (speaking  of  Virgil's  fiction  of 
Dido  and  ^Eneas),  "  takes  it  up  after  him,  even  in  the  same  age, 
and  makes  an  ancient  heroine  of  Virgil's  new-created  Dido ;  dictates 
a  letter  for  her  just  before  her  death  to  the  ungrateful  fugitive ; 
and,  very  unluckily  for  himself,  is  for  measuring  a  sword  with  a 
man  so  much  superior  in  force  to  hirn  on  the  same  subject.  I  think 
I  may  be  judge  of  this,  because  I  have  translated  both.  The  fam- 
ous author  of  the  Art  of  Love  has  nothing  of  his  own  ;  he  borrows 
all  from  a  greater  master  in  his  own  profession,  and,  which  is  worse, 


182  ADDISON 

improves  nothing  which  he  finds :  Nature  fails  him,  and  being 
forced  to  his  old  shift,  he  has  recourse  to  Witticism.  This  passes 
indeed  with  his  soft  admirers,  and  gives  him  the  preference  to 
Virgil  in  their  esteem." 

Were  not  I  supported  by  so  great  an  authority  as  that  of  Mr. 
Dryden,  I  should  not  venture  to  observe,  that  the  taste  of  most  of 
our  English  poets,  as  well  as  readers,  is  extremely  Gothic.  He 
quotes  Monsieur  Segrais  for  a  threefold  distinction  of  the  readers 
of  poetry  :  in  the  first  of  which  he  comprehends  the  rabble  of 
readers,  whom  he  does  not  treat  as  such  with  regard  to  their 
quality,  but  to  their  numbers  and  coarseness  of  their  tastes.  His 
words  are  as  follow :  "  Segrais  has  distinguished  the  readers  of 
*poetry,  according  to  their  capacity  of  judging,  into  three  classes. 
(He  might  have  said  the  same  of  writers  too,  if  he  had  pleased.) 
In  the  lowest  form  he  places  those  whom  he  calls  Les  Petits  Esprits, 
such  things  as  are  our  upper-gallery  audience  in  a  play-house  ;  who 
like  nothing  but  the  husk  and  rind  of  Wit,  prefer  a  quibble,  a  con- 
ceit, an  epigram,  before  solid  sense  and  elegant  expression :  these 
are  mob  readers.  If  Virgil  and  Martial  stood  for  Parliament-men, 
we  know  already  who  would  carry  it.  But  though  they  make  the 
greatest  appearance  in  the  field,  and  cry  the  loudest,  the  best  on 't 
is  they  are  but  a  sort  of  French  Huguenots,  or  Dutch  Boors,  brought 
over  in  herds,  but  not  naturalized ;  who  have  not  lands  of  two 
pounds  per  annum  in  Parnassus,  and  therefore  are  not  privileged  to 
poll.  Their  authors  are  of  the  same  level,  fit  to  represent  them  on 
a  mountebank's  stage,  or  to  be  masters  of  the  ceremonies  in  a  bear- 
garden :  yet  these  are  they  who  have  the  most  admirers.  But  it 
often  happens,  to  their  mortification,  that  as  their  readers  improve 
their  stock  of  sense  (as  they  may  by  reading  better  books,  and  by 
conversation  with  men  of  judgment),  they  soon  forsake  them." 

I  must  not  dismiss  this  subject  without  observing  that  as  Mr. 
Locke  in  the  passage  above-mentioned  has  discovered  the  most  fruit- 
ful source  of  Wit,  so  there  is  another  of  a  quite  contrary  nature  to  it, 
which  does  likewise  branch  itself  out  into  several  kinds.  For  not  only 
the  resemblance,  but  the  opposition  of  ideas,  does  very  often  produce 
Wit ;  as  I  could  shew  in  several  little  points,  turns,  and  antitheses, 
that  I  may  possibly  enlarge  upon  in  some  future  speculation. 


REMARKS   ON  MILTON  183 

II.     REMARKS    ON   MILTON 

(Addison's  famous  Spectator  essays  on  Paradise  Lost  are  almost  wholly 
occupied  with  a  now  merely  curious  demonstration  that  the  same  beauties 
which  the  rigidly  classical  critics  had  found  in  Homer  and  Virgil  are  also 
to  be  found  in  Milton,  and  with  a  continuous  commentary  on  "  Beauties," 
etc.  A  few  more  general  observations,  here  and  there,  show  that  the 
critic  was  not  beyond  his  age,  but  help  to  give  a  clear  view  of  Criticism 
in  that  age.) 

His  DICTION 

SPECTATOR,  No.  285.    Saturday,  January  26,  1712. 

Ne,  quicunque  Dews,  quicunque  adhibebitur  heros, 

Eegali  conspectus  in  auro  nuper  et  ostro, 

Migret  in  obscuras  humili  sermone  tabernas : 

Aut,  dum  vitat  humum,  nubes  et  inania  captet.  —  HORACE. 

Having  already  treated  of  the  fable,  the  characters,  and  senti- 
ments in  the  Paradise  Lost,  we  are  in  the  last  place  to  consider  the 
language;  and  as  the  learned  world  is  very  much  divided  upon 
Milton  as  to  this  point,  I  hope  they  will  excuse  me  if  I  appear  part- 
icular in  any  of  my  opinions,  and  incline  to  those  who  judge  the 
most  advantageously  of  the  author. 

It  is  requisite  that  the  language  of  an  heroic  poem  should  be  both 
perspicuous  and  sublime.  In  proportion  as  either  of  these  two 
qualities  are  wanting,  the  language  is  imperfect.  Perspicuity  is 
the  first  and  most  necessary  qualification ;  insomuch  that  a  good- 
natured  reader  sometimes  overlooks  a  little  slip  even  in  the 
grammar  or  syntax,  where  it  is  impossible  for  him  to  mistake  the 
poet's  sense.  Of  this  kind  is  that  passage  in  Milton,  wherein  he 

speaks  of  Satan. 

God  and  his  Son  except, 

Created  thing  nought  valu'd  he  nor  shunn'd. 

And  that  in  which  he  describes  Adam  and  Eve. 

Adam  the  goodliest  man  of  men  since  born 
His  sons,  the  fairest  of  her  daughters  Eve. 

It  is  plain,  that  in  the  former  of  these  passages  according  to  the 
natural  syntax,  the  Divine  Persons  mentioned  in  the  first  line  are 


184  ADDISON 

represented  as  created  beings;  and  that,  in  the  other,  Adam  and 
Eve  are  confounded  with  their  sons  and  daughters.  Such  little 
blemishes  as  these,  when  the  thought  is  great  and  natural,  we 
should,  with  Horace,  impute  to  a  pardonable  inadvertency,  or  to 
the  weakness  of  human  nature,  which  cannot  attend  to  each  minute 
particular,  and  give  the  last  finishing  to  every  circumstance  in  so 
long  a  work.  The  ancient  critics  therefore,  who  were  acted  by  a 
spirit  of  candour,  rather  than  that  of  cavilling,  invented  certain 
figures  of  speech,  on  purpose  to  palliate  little  errors  of  this  nature 
in  the  writings  of  those  authors  who  had  so  many  greater  beauties 
to  atone  for  them. 

If  clearness  and  perspicuity  were  only  to  be  consulted,  the  poet 
would  have  nothing  else  to  do  but  to  clothe  his  thoughts  in  the 
most  plain  and  natural  expressions.  But  since  it  often  happens 
that  the  most  obvious  phrases,  and  those  which  are  used  in  ordin- 
ary conversation,  become  too  familiar  to  the  ear,  and  contract  a 
kind  of  meanness  by  passing  through  the  mouths  of  the  vulgar,  a 
poet  should  take  particular  care  to  guard  himself  against  idiomatic 
ways  of  speaking.  Ovid  and  Lucan  have  many  poornesses  of 
expression  upon  this  account,  as  taking  up  with  the  first  phrases 
that  offered,  without  putting  themselves  to  the  trouble  of  looking 
after  such  as  would  not  only  have  been  natural,  but  also  elevated 
and  sublime.  Milton  has  but  few  failings  in  this  kind,  of  which, 
however,  you  may  meet  with  some  instances,  as  in  the  following 

passages. 

Embryos  and  idiots,  eremites  and  friars, 
White,  black,  and  grey,  with  all  their  trumpery, 

Here  pilgrims  roam 

—  A  while  discourse  they  hold, 


No  fear  lest  dinner  cool ;  when  thus  began 

Our  author 

Who  of  all  ages  to  succeed,  but  feeling 
The  evil  on  him  brought  by  me,  will  curse 
My  head,  ill  fare  our  ancestor  impure, 
For  this  we  may  thank  Adam 

The  great  masters  in  Composition,  knew  very  well  that  many  an 
elegant  phrase  becomes  improper  for  a  poet  or  an  orator,  when  it 
has  been  debased  by  common  use.  For  this  reason  the  works  of 


REMARKS  ON  MILTON  185 

ancient  authors,  which  are  written  in  dead  languages,  have  a  great 
advantage  over  those  which  are  written  in  languages  that  are  now 
spoken.  Were  there  any  mean  phrases  or  idioms  in  Virgil  and 
Homer,  they  would  not  shock  the  ear  of  the  most  delicate  modern 
reader,  so  much  as  they  would  have  done  that  of  an  old  Greek  or 
Roman,  because  we  never  hear  them  pronounced  in  our  streets,  or 
in  ordinary  conversation. 

It  is  not  therefore  sufficient,  that  the  language  of  an  epic  poem 
be  perspicuous,  unless  it  be  also  sublime.  To  this  end  it  ought  to 
deviate  from  the  common  forms  and  ordinary  phrases  of  speech. 
The  judgment  of  a  poet  very  much  discovers  itself  in  shunning  the 
common  roads  of  expression,  without  falling  into  such  ways  of 
speech  as  may  seem  stiff  and  unnatural  ;  he  must  not  swell  into  a 
false  sublime,  by  endeavouring  to  avoid  the  other  extreme.  Among 
the  Greeks,  ^Eschylus,  and  sometimes  Sophocles,  were  guilty  of 
this  fault ;  among  the  Latins,  Claudian  and  Statius ;  and  among 
our  own  countrymen,  Shakespeare  and  Lee.  In  these  authors  the 
affectation  of  greatness  often  hurts  the  perspicuity  of  the  style, 
as  in  many  others  the  endeavour  after  perspicuity  prejudices  its 
greatness. 

Aristotle  has  observed,  that  the  idiomatic  style  may  be  avoided, 
and  the  sublime  formed,  by  the  following  methods.  First,  by  the 
use  of  metaphors  :  such  are  those  of  Milton. 

Imparadised  in  one  another's  arms. 

And  in  his  hand  a  reed 

Stood  waving  tipt  with  fire. 

The  grassy  clods  now  caWd, 

Spangled  with  eyes 

In  these  and  innumerable  other  instances,  the  metaphors  are  very 
bold  but  just ;  I  must  however  observe  that  the  metaphors  are  not 
so  thick  sown  in  Milton,  which  always  savours  too  much  of  wit ; 
that  they  never  clash  with  one  another,  which,  as  Aristotle  observes, 
turns  a  sentence  into  a  kind  of  an  enigma  or  riddle ;  and  that  he 
seldom  has  recourse  to  them  where  the  proper  and  natural  words 
will  do  as  well. 

Another  way  of  raising  the  language,  and  giving  it  a  poetical 
turn,  is  to  make  use  of  the  idioms  of  other  tongues.  Virgil  is  full 


186  ADDISON 

of  the  Greek  forms  of  speech,  which  the  critics  call  Hellenisms,  as 
Horace  in  his  Odes  abounds  with  them  much  more  than  Virgil.  I 
need  not  mention  the  several  dialects  which  Homer  has  made  use 
of  for  this  end.  Milton,  in  conformity  with  the  practice  of  the 
ancient  poets,  and  with  Aristotle's  rule,  has  infused  a  great  many 
Latinisms,  as  well  as  Grsecisms,  and  sometimes  Hebraisms,  into  the 
language  of  his  poem ;  as  towards  the  beginning  of  it. 

Nor  did  they  not  perceive  the  evil  plight 

In  which  they  were,  or  the  fierce  pains  not  feel. 

Yet  to  their  Gen'ral's  voice  they  soon  obey'd. 

Who  shall  tempt  with  wand'ring  feet 

The  dark  unbottom'd  infinite  abyss, 
And  through  the  palpable  obscure  find  out 
His  uncouth  way,  or  spread  his  airy  flight 
Upborn  with  indefatigable  wings 

Over  the  vast  abrupt ! 

So  both  ascend 

In  the  visions  of  God 


Under  this  head  may  be  reckoned  the  placing  the  adjective  after 
the  substantive,  the  transposition  of  words,  the  turning  the  adject- 
ive into  a  substantive,  with  several  other  foreign  modes  of  speech 
which  this  poet  has  naturalized  to  give  his  verse  the  greater  sound, 
and  throw  it  out  of  prose. 

The  third  method  mentioned  by  Aristotle  is  what  agrees  with  the 
genius  of  the  Greek  language  more  than  with  that  of  any  other 
tongue,  and  is  therefore  more  used  by  Homer  than  by  any  other 
poet.  I  mean  the  lengthening  of  a  phrase  by  the  addition  of  words, 
which  may  either  be  inserted  or  omitted,  as  also  by  the  extending 
or  contracting  of  particular  words  by  the  insertion  or  omission  of 
certain  syllables.  Milton  has  put  in  practice  this  method  of  raising 
his  language,  as  far  as  the  nature  of  our  tongue  will  permit,  as 
in  the  passage  above-mentioned,  eremite,  for  what  is  hermit,  in 
common  discourse.  If  you  observe  the  measure  of  his  verse,  he 
has  with  great  judgment  suppressed  a  syllable  in  several  words,  and 
shortened  those  of  two  syllables  into  one,  by  which  method,  besides 
the  above-mentioned  advantage,  he  has  given  a  greater  variety  to 
his  numbers.  But  this  practice  is  more  particularly  remarkable  in 


REMARKS  ON  MILTON  187 

t 
the  names  of  persons  and  of  countries,  as  Beelzebub,  Hessebon,  and 

in  many  other  particulars,  wherein  he  has  either  changed  the  name, 
or  made  use  of  that  which  is  not  the  most  commonly  known,  that 
he  might  the  better  depart  from  the  language  of  the  vulgar. 

The  same  reason  recommended  to  him  several  old  words,  which 
also  makes  his  poem  appear  the  more  venerable,  and  gives  it  a 
greater  air  of  antiquity. 

I  must  likewise  take  notice,  that  there  are  in  Milton  several 
words  of  his  own  coining,  as  Cerberean,  miscreated,  Hell-doom'd, 
embryon  atoms,  and  many  others.  If  the  reader  is  offended  at  this 
liberty  in  our  English  poet,  I  would  recommend  him  to  a  discourse 
in  Plutarch,  which  shows  us  how  frequently  Homer  has  made  use 
of  the  same  liberty. 

Milton,  by  the  above-mentioned  helps,  and  by  the  choice  of  the 
noblest  words  and  phrases  which  our  tongue  would  afford  him,  has 
carried  our  language  to  a  greater  height  than  any  of  the  English 
poets  have  ever  done  before  or  after  him,  and  made  the  sublimity 
of  his  style  equal  to  that  of  his  sentiments. 

I  have  been  the  more  particular  in  these  observations  on  Milton's 
style,  because  it  is  that  part  of  him  in  which  he  appears  the  most 
singular.  The  remarks  I  have  here  made  upon  the  practice  of  other 
poets,  with  my  observations  out  of  Aristotle,  will  perhaps  alleviate 
the  prejudice  which  some  have  taken  to  his  poem  upon  this  account ; 
though  after  all,  I  must  confess  that  I  think  his  style,  though 
admirable  in  general,  is  in  some  places  too  much  stiffened  and 
obscured  by  the  frequent  use  of  those  methods,  which  Aristotle  has 
prescribed  for  the  raising  of  it. 

This  redundancy  of  those  several  ways  of  speech,  which  Aristotle 
calls  foreign  language,  and  with  which  Milton  has  so  very  much 
enriched,  and  in  some  places  darkened  the  language  of  his  poem, 
was  the  more  proper  for  his  use,  because  his  poem  is  written  in 
blank  verse.  Rhyme,  without  any  other  assistance,  throws  the 
language  off  from  prose,  and  very  often  makes  an  indifferent  phrase 
pass  unregarded ;  but  where  the  verse  is  not  built  upon  rhymes, 
there  pomp  of  sound,  and  energy  of  expression,  are  indispensably 
necessary  to  support  the  style,  and  keep  it  from  falling  into  the 
flatness  of  prose. 


188  ADDISON 

Those  who  have  not  a  taste  for  this  elevation  of  style,  and  are 
apt  to  ridicule  a  poet  when  he  departs  from  the  common  forms  of 
expression,  would  do  well  to  see  how  Aristotle  has  treated  an 
ancient  author  called  Euclid,  for  his  insipid  mirth  upon  this  occa- 
sion. Mr.  Dryden  used  to  call  these  sort  of  men  his  prose-critics. 

I  should,  under  this  head  of  the  language,  consider  Milton's 
numbers,  in  which  he  has  made  use  of  several  elisions,  which  are 
not  customary  among  other  English  poets,  as  may  be  particularly 
observed  in  his  cutting  off  the  letter  y,  when  it  precedes  a  vowel. 
This,  and  some  other  innovations  in  the  measure  of  his  verse,  has 
varied  his  numbers  in  such  a  manner,  as  makes  them  incapable  of 
satiating  the  ear,  and  cloying  the  reader,  which  the  same  uniform 
measure  would  certainly  have  done,  and  which  the  perpetual  returns 
of  rhyme  never  fail  to  do  in  long  narrative  poems.  I  shall  close 
these  reflections  upon  the  language  of  Paradise  Lost,  with  observ- 
ing that  Milton  has  copied  after  Homer  rather  than  Virgil  in  the 
length  of  his  periods,  the  copiousness  of  his  phrases,  and  the  run- 
ning of  his  verses  into  one  another. 

His  FABLE,  ETC.,  AND  LANGUAGE  AGAIN 
SPECTATOR,  No.  297.    Saturday,  February  9, 1712. 

velut  si 

Egregio  inspersos  reprendas  corpore  ncevos.  —  HORACE. 

After  what  I  have  said  in  my  last  Saturday's  paper,  I  shall 
enter  on  the  subject  of  this  without  further  preface,  and  remark 
the  several  defects  which  appear  in  the  fable,  the  characters,  the 
sentiments,  and  the  language  of  Milton's  Paradise  Lost ;  not  doubt- 
ing but  the  reader  will  pardon  me,  if  I  allege  at  the  same  time 
whatever  may  be  said  for  the  extenuation  of  such  defects.  The 
first  imperfection  which  I  shall  observe  in  the  fable  is  that  the 
event  of  it  is  unhappy. 

The  fable  of  every  poem  is,  according  to  Aristotle's  division, 
either  simple  or  implex.  It  is  called  simple  when  there  is  no 
change  of  fortune  in  it :  implex,  when  the  fortune  of  the  chief  actor 
changes  from  bad  to  good,  or  from  good  to  bad.  The  implex  fable 
is  thought  the  most  perfect ;  I  suppose,  because  it  is  more  proper 


REMARKS  ON  MILTON  189 

to  stir  up  the  passions  of  the  reader,  and  to  surprise  him  with  a 
greater  variety  of  accidents. 

The  implex  fable  is  therefore  of  two  kinds  :  in  the  first  the  chief 
actor  makes  his  way  through  a  long  series  of  dangers  and  difficul- 
ties, till  he  arrives  at  honour  and  prosperity,  as  we  see  in  the  story 
of  Ulysses.  In  the  second,  the  chief  actor  in  the  poem  falls  from 
some  eminent  pitch  of  honour  and  prosperity,  into  misery  and  dis- 
grace. Thus  we  see  Adam  and  Eve  sinking  from  a  state  of  innoc- 
ence and  happiness,  into  the  most  abject  condition  of  sin  and 
sorrow. 

The  most  taking  tragedies  among  the  Ancients  were  built  on  this 
last  sort  of  implex  fable,  particularly  the  tragedy  of  CEdipus, 
which  proceeds  upon  a  story,  if  we  may  believe  Aristotle,  the  most 
proper  for  tragedy  that  could  be  invented  by  the  wit  of  man.  I 
have  taken  some  pains  in  a  former  paper  to  shew,  that  this  kind  of 
implex  fable,  wherein  the  event  is  unhappy,  is  more  apt  to  affect 
an  audience  than  that  of  the  first  kind ;  notwithstanding  many 
excellent  pieces  among  the  Ancients,  as  well  as  most  of  those  which 
have  been  written  of  late  years  in  our  own  country,  are  raised  upon 
contrary  plans.  I  must  however  own,  that  I  think  this  kind  of 
fable,  which  is  the  most  perfect  in  tragedy,  is  not  so  proper  for  an 
heroic  poem. 

Milton  seems  to  have  been  sensible  of  this  imperfection  in  his 
fable,  and  has  therefore  endeavoured  to  cure  it  by  several  expedi- 
ents ;  particularly  by  the  mortification  which  the  great  Adversary 
of  Mankind  meets  with  upon  his  return  to  the  assembly  of  infernal 
spirits,  as  it  is  described  in  a  beautiful  passage  of  the  tenth  book  ; 
and  likewise  by  the  vision  wherein  Adam  at  the  close  of  the  poem 
sees  his  offspring  triumphing  over  his  great  enemy,  and  himself 
restored  to  a  happier  Paradise  than  that  from  which  he  fell. 

There  is  another  objection  against  Milton's  fable,  which  is  indeed 
almost  the  same  with  the  former,  though  placed  in  a  different  light, 
namely,  that  the  hero  in  the  Paradise  Lost  is  unsuccessful,  and  by 
no  means  a  match  for  his  enemies.  This  gave  occasion  to  Mr.  Dry- 
den's  reflection,  that  the  Devil  was  in  reality  Milton's  hero.  I 
think  I  have  obviated  this  objection  in  my  first  paper.  The  Para- 
dise Lost  is  an  epic  or  a  narrative  poem,  and  he  that  looks  for  an 


190  ADDISON 

hero  in  it,  searches  for  that  which  Milton  never  intended ;  but  if  he 
will  needs  fix  the  name  of  an  hero  upon  any  person  in  it,  't  is  cert- 
ainly the  Messiah  who  is  the  hero,  both  in  the  principal  action,  and 
in  the  chief  episodes.  Paganism  could  not  furnish  out  a  real  action 
for  a  fable  greater  than  that  of  the  Iliad  or  ^Eneid,  and  therefore 
an  heathen  could  not  form  a  higher  notion  of  a  poem  than  one  of 
that  kind,  which  they  call  an  "heroic.  Whether  Milton's  is  not 
of  a  sublimer  nature  I  will  not  presume  to  determine :  it  is  suf- 
ficient that  I  shew  there  is  in  the  Paradise  Lost  all  the  greatness  of 
plan,  regularity  of  design,  and  masterly  beauties  which  we  discover 
in  Homer  and  Virgil. 

I  must  in  the  next  place  observe,  that  Milton  has  interwoven  in 
the  texture  of  his  fable  some  particulars  which  do  not  seem  to 
have  probability  enough  for  an  epic  poem,  particularly  in  the  actions 
which  he  ascribes  to  Sin  and  Death,  and  the  picture  which  he  draws 
of  the  Limbo  of  Vanity,  with  other  passages  in  the  second  book. 
Such  allegories  rather  savour  of  the  spirit  of  Spenser  and  Ariosto, 
than  of  Homer  and  Virgil. 

In  the  structure  of  his  poem  he  has  likewise  admitted  of  too 
many  digressions.  It  is  finely  observed  by  Aristotle,  that  the 
author  of  an  heroic  poem  should  seldom  speak  himself,  but  throw 
as  much  of  his  work  as  he  can  into  the  mouths  of  those  who  are 
his  principal  actors.  Aristotle  has  given  no  reason  for  this  precept ; 
but  I  presume  it  is  because  the  mind  of  the  reader  is  more  awed 
and  elevated  when  he  hears  yEneas  or  Achilles  speak,  than  when 
Virgil  or  Homer  talk  in  their  own  persons.  Besides  that  assuming 
the  character  of  an  eminent  man  is  apt  to  fire  the  imagination,  and 
raise  the  ideas  of  the  author.  Tully  tells  us,  mentioning  his  Dia- 
logue of  Old  Age,  in  which  Cato  is  the  chief  speaker,  that  upon  a 
review  of  it  he  was  agreeably  imposed  upon,  and  fancied  that  it 
was  Cato,  and  not  he  himself,  who  uttered  his  thoughts  on  that 
subject. 

If  the  reader  would  be  at  the  pains  to  see  how  the  story  of  the 
Iliad  and  the  JEneid  is  delivered  by  those  persons  who  act  in  it,  he 
will  be  surprised  to  find  how  little  in  either  of  these  poems  proceeds 
from  the  authors.  Milton  has,  in  the  general  disposition  of  his  fable, 
very  finely  observed  this  great  rule ;  insomuch  that  there  is  scarce  a 


REMARKS  ON  MILTON  191 

third  part  of  it  which  comes  from  the  poet;  the  rest  is  spoken 
either  by  Adam  and  Eve,  or  by  some  good  or  evil  spirit  who  is 
engaged  either  in  their  destruction  or  defence. 

From  what,  has  been  here  observed  it  appears,  that  digressions 
are  by  no  means  to  be  allowed  of  in  an  epic  poem.  If  the  poet, 
even  in  the  ordinary  course  of  his  narration,  should  speak  as  little 
as  possible,  he  should  certainly  never  let  his  narration  sleep  for  the 
sake  of  any  reflections  of  his  own.  I  have  often  observed,  with  a 
secret  admiration,  that  the  longest  reflection  in  the  JEneld  is  in 
that  passage  of  the  tenth  book,  where  Turnus  is  represented  as 
dressing  himself  in  the  spoils  of  Pallas,  whom  he  had  slain. 
Virgil  here  lets  his  fable  stand  still  for  the  sake  of  the  following 
remark.  "  How  is  the  mind  of  man  ignorant  of  futurity,  and  unable 
to  bear  prosperous  fortune  with  moderation?  The  time  will 
come  when  Turnus  shall  wish  that  he  had  left  the  body  of  Pallas 
untouched,  and  curse  the  day  on  which  he  dressed  himself  in  these 
spoils."  As  the  great  event  of  the  ^Eneid,  and  the  death  of  Turnus, 
whom  ^neas  slew  because  he  saw  him  adorned  with  the  spoils  of 
Pallas,  turns  upon  this  incident,  Virgil  went  out  of  his  way  to  make 
this  reflection  upon  it,  without  which  so  small  a  circumstance  might 
possibly  have  slipped  out  of  his  reader's  memory.  Lucan,  who 
was  an  injudicious  poet,  lets  drop  his  story  very  frequently  for  the 
sake  of  his  unnecessary  digressions,  or  his  diverticula,  as  Scaliger 
calls  them.1  If  he  gives  us  an  account  of  the  prodigies  which  pre- 
ceded the  Civil  War,  he  declaims  upon  the  occasion,  and  shews  how 
much  happier  it  would  be  for  man,  if  he  did  not  feel  his  evil  fort- 
une before  it  comes  to  pass ;  and  suffer  not  only  by  its  real  weight, 
but  by  the  apprehension  of  it.  Milton's  complaint  for  his  blind- 
ness, his  panegyric  on  marriage,  his  reflections  on  Adam  and  Eve's 
going  naked,  of  the  angels  eating,  and  several  other  passages  in  his 
poem,  are  liable  to  the  same  exception,  though  I  must  confess  there 
is  so  great  a  beauty  in  these  very  digressions,  that  I  would  not 
wish  them  out  of  his  poem. 

I  have,  in  a  former  paper,  spoken  of  the  characters  of  Milton's 
Paradise  Lost,  and  declared  my  opinion,  as  to  the  allegorical  persons 
who  are  introduced  in  it. 

1  Poetices  Lib.  iii  cap.  25. 


192  ADDISON 

If  we  look  into  the  sentiments,  I  think  they  are  sometimes 
defective  under  the  following  heads :  first,  as  there  are  several 
of  them  too  much  pointed,  and  some  that  degenerate  even  into 
puns.  Of  this  last  kind  I  am  afraid  is  that  in  the  first  book, 
where  speaking  of  the  Pigmies,  he  calls  them, 

The  small  infantry 

Warr'd  on  by  cranes  — 

Another  blemish  that  appears  in  some  of  his  thoughts,  is 
his  frequent  allusion  to  heathen  fables,  which  are  not  certainly 
of  a  piece  with  the  divine  subject,  of  which  he  treats.  I  do 
not  find  fault  with  these  allusions,  where  the  poet  himself  rep- 
resents them  as  fabulous,  as  he  does  in  some  places,  but  where 
he  mentions  them  as  truths  and  matters  of  fact.  The  limits  of 
my  paper  will  not  give  me  leave  to  be  particular  in  instances 
of  this  kind;  the  reader  will  easily  remark  them  in  his  perusal  of 
the  poem. 

A  third  fault  in  his  sentiments,  is  an  unnecessary  ostentation  of 
learning,  which  likewise  occurs  very  frequently.  It  is  certain  that 
both  Homer  and  Virgil  were  masters  of  all  the  learning  of  their 
times,  but  it  shews  itself  in  their  works  after  an  indirect  and  con- 
cealed manner.  Milton  seems  ambitious  of  letting  us  know,  by  his 
excursions  on  free-will  and  predestination,  and  his  many  glances 
upon  history,  astronomy,  geography,  and  the  like,  as  well  as  by  the 
terms  and  phrases  he  sometimes  makes  use  of,  that  he  was  acquainted 
with  the  whole  circle  of  arts  and  sciences. 

If,  in  the  last  place,  we  consider  the  language  of  this  great  poet, 
we  must  allow  what  I  have  hinted  in  a  former  paper,  that  it  is 
often  too  much  laboured,  and  sometimes  obscured  by  old  words, 
transpositions,  and  foreign  idioms.  Seneca's  objection  to  the  style 
of  a  great  author,  Riget  ejus  oratio,  nihil  in  ea  placidum  nihil  lene,  is 
what  many  critics  make  to  Milton  :  as  I  cannot  wholly  refuse  it, 
so  I  have  already  apologized  for  it  in  another  paper ;  to  which  I 
may  further  add,  that  Milton's  sentiments  and  ideas  were  so  won- 
derfully sublime,  that  it  would  have  been  impossible  for  him  to 
have  represented  them  in  their  full  strength  and  beauty,  without 
having  recourse  to  these  foreign  assistances.  Our  language  sunk 


REMARKS  ON  MILTON  193 

under   him,  and  was   unequal   to   that  greatness  of   soul,  which 
furnished  him  with  such  glorious  conceptions. 

A  second  fault  in  his  language  is,  that  he  often  affects  a  kind  of 
jingle  in  his  words,  as  in  the  following  passages,  and  many  others : 

And  brought  into  the  world  a  world  of  woe. 

Begirt  th'  Almighty  throne 

Beseeching  or  besieging  

This  tempted  our  attempt  


At  one  slight  bound  high  overleapt  all  bound. 

I  know  there  are  figures  for  this  kind  of  speech,  that  some  of  the 
greatest  ancients  have  been  guilty  of  it,  and  that  Aristotle  himself 
has  given  it  a  place  in  his  Rhetoric  among  the  beauties  of  that  art. 
But  as  it  is  in  itself  poor  and  trifling,  it  is  I  think  at  present 
universally  exploded  by  all  the  masters  of  polite  writing. 

The  last  fault  which  I  shall  take  notice  of  in  Milton's  style,  is 
the  frequent  use  of  what  the  learned  call  technical  words,  or  terms 
of  art.  It  is  one  of  the  great  beauties  of  poetry,  to  make  hard 
things  intelligible,  and  to  deliver  what  is  abstruse  of  itself  in  such 
easy  language  as  may  be  understood  by  ordinary  readers :  besides, 
that  the  knowledge  of  a  poet  should  rather  seem  born  with  him,  or 
inspired,  than  drawn  from  books  and  systems.  I  have  often  won- 
dered how  Mr.  Dryden  could  translate  a  passage  out  of  Virgil  after 
the  following  manner. 

Tack  to  the  larboard,  and  stand  off  to  sea. 
Veer  starboard  sea  and  land.  — 

Milton  makes  use  of  larboard  in  the  same  manner.  When  he  Is 
upon  building  he  mentions  Doric  pillars,  pilasters,  cornice,  frieze, 
architrave.  When  he  talks  of  heavenly  bodies,  you  meet  with 
ecliptic  and  eccentric,  the  trepidation,  stars  dropping  from  the  zenith, 
rays  culminating  from  the  equator.  To  which  might  be  added 
many  instances  of  the  like  kind  in  several  other  arts  and  sciences. 
I  shall  in  my  next  papers  give  an  account  of  the  many  particular 
beauties  in  Milton,  which  would  have  been  too  long  to  insert  under 
those  general  heads  I  have  already  treated  of,  and  with  which  I 
intend  to  conclude  this  piece  of  criticism. 


194  ADDISON 

SUMMARY 

I  have  now  finished  my  observations  on  a  work  which  does  an 
honour  to  the  English  nation.  I  have  taken  a  general  view  of  it 
under  these  four  heads,  the  fable,  the  characters,  the  sentiments, 
and  the  language,  and  made  each  of  them  the  subject  of  a  parti- 
cular paper.  I  have  in  the  next  place  spoken  of  the  censures  which 
our  author  may  incur  under  each  of  these  heads,  which  I  have  con- 
fined to  two  papers,  though  I  might  have  enlarged  the  number,  if  I  had 
been  disposed  to  dwell  on  so  ungrateful  a  subject.  I  believe,  how- 
ever, that  the  severest  reader  will  not  find  any  little  fault  in  heroic 
poetry,  which  this  author  has  fallen  into,  that  does  not  come  under 
one  of  those  headg  among  which  I  have  distributed  his  several 
blemishes.  After  having  thus  treated  at  large  of  Paradise  Lost, 
I  could  not  think  it  sufficient  to  have  celebrated  this  poem  in 
the  whole,  without  descending  to  particulars.  I  have  therefore 
bestowed  a  paper  upon  each  book,  and  endeavoured  not  only  to  prove 
that  the  poem  is  beautiful  in  general,  but  to  point  out  its  particular 
beauties,  and  to  determine  wherein  they  consist.  I  have  endeav- 
oured to  shew  how  some  passages  are  beautiful  by  being  sublime, 
others  by  being  soft,  others  by  being  natural ;  which  of  them  are 
recommended  by  the  passion,  which  by  the  moral,  which  by  the 
sentiment,  and  which  by  the  expression.  I  have  likewise  endeav- 
oured to  shew  how  the  genius  of  the  poet  shines  by  a  happy  inven- 
tion, a  distant  allusion,  or  a  judicious  imitation ;  how  he  has  copied 
or  improved  Homer  or  Virgil,  and  raised  his  own  imaginations  by 
the  use  which  he  has  made  of  several  poetical  passages  in  Scripture. 
f  might  have  inserted  also  several  passages  of  Tasso,  which  our 
author  has  imitated ;  but  as  I  do  not  look  upon  Tasso  to  be  a  suf- 
ficient voucher,  I  would  not  perplex  my  reader  with  such  quotations, 
as  might  do  more  honour  to  the  Italian  than  the  English  poet.  In 
short,  I  have  endeavoured  to  particularize  those  innumerable  kinds 
of  beauty,  which  it  would  be  tedious  to  recapitulate,  but  which  are 
essential  to  poetry,  and  which  may  be  met  with  in  the  works  of  this 
great  author.  Had  I  thought,  at  my  first  engaging  in  this  design, 
that  it  would  have  led  me  to  so  great  a  length,  I  believe  I  should 
never  have  entered  upon  it ;  but  the  kind  reception  which  it  has 


THE  PLEASURES  OF   THE  IMAGINATION  195 

met  with  among  those  whose  judgments  I  have  a  value  for,  as  well  as 
the  uncommon  demands  which  my  bookseller  tells  me  have  been 
made  for  these  particular  discourses,  give  me  no  reason  to  repent 
of  the  pains  I  have  been  at  in  composing  them. 


m.     THE   PLEASURES   OF   THE   IMAGINATION 

(It  will  be  observed  that  Addison  carefully  guards  against  the  confusion 
of  his  Imagination  with  the  Shakespearean-Coleridgean  variety.) 

DEFINITION 
SPECTATOR,  No.  411.    Saturday,  June  21,  1712. 

Avia  Pieridum  peragro  loca,  nullius  ante 
Trita  solo;  juvat  integros  accedere  fonteis; 
Atque  haurire.  —  LUCRETIUS. 

Our  sight  is  the  most  perfect  and  most  delightful  of  all  our  senses. 
It  fills  the  mind  with  the  largest  variety  of  ideas,  converses  with  its 
objects  at  the  greatest  distance,  and  continues  the  longest  in  action 
without  being  tired  or  satiated  with  its  proper  enjoyments.  The 
sense  of  feeling  can  indeed  give  us  a  notion  of  extension,  shape, 
and  all  other  ideas  that  enter  at  the  eye,  except  colours ;  but  at  the 
same  time  it  is  very  much  straitened  and  confined  in  its  opera- 
tions, to  the  number,  bulk,  and  distance  of  its  particular  objects. 
Our  sight  seems  designed  to  supply  all  these  defects,  and  may  be 
considered  as  a  more  delicate  and  diffusive  kind  of  touch,  that 
spreads  itself  over  an  infinite  multitude  of  bodies,  comprehends  the 
largest  figures,  and  brings  into  our  reach  some  of  the  most  remote 
parts  of  the  universe. 

It  is  this  sense  which  furnishes  the  Imagination  with  its  ideas ; 
so  that  by  the  pleasures  of  the  Imagination  or  Fancy  (which  I  shall 
use  promiscuously)  I  here  mean  such  as  arise  from  visible  objects, 
either  when  we  have  them  actually  in  our  view,  or  when  we  call  up 
their  ideas  in  our  minds  by  paintings,  statues,  descriptions,  or  any 
the  like  occasion.  We  cannot  indeed  have  a  single  image  in  the 
Fancy  that  did  not  make  its  first  entrance  through  the  sight ;  but 
we  have  the  power  of  retaining,  altering,  and  compounding  those 


196  ADDISON 

images,  which  we  have  once  received,  into  all  the  varieties  of  picture 
and  vision  that  are  most  agreeable  to  the  Imagination ;  for  by  this 
faculty  a  man  in  a  dungeon  is  capable  of  entertaining  himself  with 
scenes  and  landscapes  more  beautiful  than  any  that  can  be  found 
in  the  whole  compass  of  nature. 

There  are  few  words  in  the  English  language  which  are  employed 
in  a  more  loose  and  uncircumscribed  sense  than  those  of  the  Fancy 
and  the  Imagination.  I  therefore  thought  it  necessary  to  fix  and 
determine  the  notion  of  these  two  words,  as  I  intend  to  make  use 
of  them  in  the  thread  of  my  following  speculations,  that  the  reader 
may  conceive  rightly  what  is  the  subject  which  I  proceed  upon.  I 
must  therefore  desire  him  to  remember,  that  by  the  pleasures  of  the 
Imagination,  I  mean  only  such  pleasures  as  arise  originally  from 
sight,  and  that  I  divide  these  pleasures  into  two  kinds  :  my  design 
being  first  of  all  to  discourse  of  those  primary  pleasures  of  the 
imagination,  which  entirely  proceed  from  such  objects  as  are  before 
our  eyes ;  and  in  the  next  place  to  speak  of  those  secondary  pleas- 
ures of  the  Imagination  which  flow  from  the  ideas  of  visible  objects, 
when  the  objects  are  not  actually  before  the  eye,  but  are  called  up 
into  our  memories,  or  formed  into  agreeable  visions  of  things  that 
are  either  absent  or  fictitious. 

The  pleasures  of  the  Imagination,  taken  in  the  full  extent,  are 
not  so  gross  as  those  of  sense,  nor  so  refined  as  those  of  the  under- 
standing. The  last  are,  indeed,  more  preferable,  because  they  are 
founded  on  some  new  knowledge  or  improvement  in  the  mind  of 
man ;  yet  it  must  be  confest,  that  those  of  the  Imagination  are  as 
great  and  as  transporting  as  the  other.  A  beautiful  prospect 
delights  the  soul,  as  much  as  a  demonstration  ;  and  a  description  in 
Homer  has  charmed  more  readers  than  a  chapter  in  Aristotle. 
Besides,  the  pleasures  of  the  Imagination  have  this  advantage, 
above  those  of  the  understanding,  that  they  are  more  obvious,  and 
more  easy  to  be  acquired.  It  is  but  opening  the  eye,  and  the  scene 
enters.  The  colours  paint  themselves  on  the  Fancy,  with  very 
little  attention  of  thought  or  application  of  mind  in  the  beholder. 
We  are  struck,  we  know  not  how,  with  the  symmetry  of  any  thing 
we  see,  and  immediately  assent  to  the  beauty  of  an  object,  without 
enquiring  into  the  particular  causes  and  occasions  of  it. 


THE   PLEASURES  OF  THE  IMAGINATION  197 

A  man  of  a  polite  imagination  is  let  into  a  great  many  pleasures, 
that  the  vulgar  are  not  capable  of  receiving.  He  can  converse  with 
a  picture,  and  find  an  agreeable  companion  in  a  statue.  He  meets 
with  a  secret  refreshment  in  a  description,  and  often  feels  a  greater 
satisfaction  in  the  prospect  of  fields  and  meadows,  than  another  does 
in  the  possession.  It  gives  him,  indeed,  a  kind  of  property  in 
everything  he  sees,  and  makes  the  most  rude  uncultivated  parts  of 
nature  administer  to  his  pleasures  :  so  that  he  looks  upon  the  world, 
as  it  were  in  another  light,  and  discovers  in  it  a  multitude  of 
charms,  that  conceal  themselves  from  the  generality  of  mankind. 

There  are,  indeed,  but  very  few  who  know  how  to  be  idle  and 
innocent,  or  have  a  relish  of  any  pleasures  that  are  not  criminal ; 
every  diversion  they  take  is  at  the  expense  of  some  one  virtue 
or  another,  and  their  very  first  step  out  of  business  is  into  vice  or 
folly.  A  man  should  endeavour,  therefore,  to  make  the  sphere  of 
his  innocent  pleasures  as  wide  as  possible,  that  he  may  retire  into 
them  with  safety,  and  find  in  them  such  a  satisfaction  as  a  wise  man 
would  not  blush  to  take.  Of  this  nature  are  those  of  the  Imagin- 
ation, which  do  not  require  such  a  bent  of  thought  as  is  necessary 
to  our  more  serious  employments,  nor,  at  the  same  time,  suffer  the 
mind  to  sink  into  that  negligence  and  remissness,  which  are  apt  to 
accompany  our  more  sensual  delights,  but,  like  a  gentle  exercise  to 
the  faculties,  awaken  them  from  sloth  and  idleness,  without  put- 
ting them  upon  any  labour  or  difficulty. 

We  might  here  add,  that  the  pleasures  of  the  Fancy  are  more 
conducive  to  health,  than  those  of  the  understanding,  which  are 
worked  out  by  dint  of  thinking,  and  attended  with  too  violent  a 
labour  of  the  brain.  Delightful  scenes,  whether  in  nature,  painting, 
or  poetry,  have  a  kindly  influence  on  the  body,  as  well  as  the  mind, 
and  not  only  serve  to  clear  and  brighten  the  Imagination,  but  are 
able  to  disperse  grief  and  melancholy,  and  to  set  the  animal  spirits 
in  pleasing  and  agreeable  motions.  For  this  reason  Sir  Francis 
Bacon,  in  his  essay  upon  Health,  has  not  thought  it  improper  to  pre- 
scribe to  his  reader  a  poem  or  a  prospect,  where  he  particularly  dis- 
suades him  from  knotty  and  subtle  disquisitions,  and  advises  him 
to  pursue  studies  that  fill  the  mind  with  splendid  and  illustrious 
objects,  as  histories,  fables,  and  contemplations  of  nature. 


198  ADDISON 

I  have  in  this  paper,  by  way  of  introduction,  settled  the  notion 
of  those  pleasures  of  the  Imagination  which  are  the  subject  of  my 
present  undertaking,  and  endeavoured,  by  several  considerations,  to 
recommend  to  my  reader  the  pursuit  of  those  pleasures.  I  shall, 
in  my  next  paper,  examine  the  several  sources  from  whence  these 
pleasures  are  derived.1 


THE  FAIRY  WAY  OF  WRITING2 

SPECTATOR,  No.  419.     Tuesday,  July  1,  1712. 
-  mentis  gratissimus  error.  —  HORACE. 

There  is  a  kind  of  writing,  wherein  the  poet  quite  loses  sight 
of  Nature,  and  entertains  his  reader's  imagination  with  the  char- 
acters and  actions  of  such  persons  as  have  many  of  them  no 
existence,  but  what  he  bestows  on  them.  Such  are  fairies,  witches, 
magicians,  demons,  and  departed  spirits.  This  Mr.  Dryden  calls 
the  Fairy  Way  of  Writing,  which  is,  indeed,  more  difficult  than 
any  other  that  depends  on  the  poet's  fancy,  because  he  has  no 
pattern  to  follow  in  it,  and  must  work  altogether  out  of  his  own 
invention. 

There  is  a  very  odd  turn  of  thought  required  for  this  sort  of 
writing,  and  it  is  impossible  for  a  poet  to  succeed  in  it,  who  has 
not  a  particular  cast  of  fancy,  and  an  imagination  naturally  fruitful 
and  superstitious.  Besides  this  he  ought  to  be  very  well  versed 
in  legends  and  fables,  antiquated  romances,  and  the  traditions  of 
nurses  and  old  women,  that  he  may  fall  in  with  our  natural  pre- 
judices, and  humour  those  notions  which  we  have  imbibed  in  our 
infancy.  For  otherwise  he  will  be  apt  to  make  his  fairies  talk  like 
people  of  his  own  species,  and  not  like  other  sets  of  beings,  who 

1  Addison  does,  in  fact,  proceed  in  a  most  interesting  series  of  papers  on 
Taste  in  the  Arts  generally,  and  more  particularly  in  Literature,  always  on  the 
basis  of  ideals  furnished  by  sight  at  first  or  second  hand. 

2  I  have  seen  this  phrase  attributed,  and  by  no  unlettered  "person,  to  Charles 
Lamb.     It  is  actually  derived  from  Dryden's  Preface  to  King  Arthur,  his 
"fairy  "  opera  ;  but  no  doubt  Addison  gave  it  much  wider  currency,  and  Lamb 
may  have  taken  it  from  him. 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  THE   IMAGINATION  199 

converse  with  different  objects,  and  think  in  a  different  manner 
from  that  of  mankind ; 

Sylvis  deduct!  caveant,  me  judice,  Fauni 

Ne  velut  innati  triviis  ac  paene  forenses 

Aut  nimium  teneris  juvenentur  versibus.  —  HORACE. 

I  do  not  say  with  Mr.  Bayes  in  the  Rehearsal,  that  spirits  must  not 
be  confined  to  speak  sense,  but  it  is  certain  their  sense  ought  to  be 
a  little  discoloured,  that  it  may  seem  particular,  and  proper  to  the 
person  and  the  condition  of  the  speaker. 

These  descriptions  raise  a  pleasing  kind  of  horror  in  the  mind 
of  the  reader,  and  amuse  his  imagination  with  the  strangeness  and 
novelty  of  the  persons  who  are  represented  in  them.  They  bring 
up  into  our  memory  the  stories  we  have  heard  in  our  childhood, 
and  favour  those  secret  terrors  and  apprehensions  to  which  the 
mind  of  man  is  naturally  subject.  We  are  pleased  with  surveying 
the  different  habits  and  behaviours  of  foreign  countries,  how  much 
more  must  we  be  delighted  and  surprised  when  we  are  led,  as  it  were, 
into  a  new  creation,  and  see  the  persons  and  manners  of  another 
species  ?  Men  of  cold  fancies,  and  philosophical  dispositions,  object 
to  this  kind  of  poetry,  that  it  has  not  probability  enough  to  affept 
the  Imagination.  But  to  this  it  may  be  answered,  that  we  are  sure, 
in  general,  there  are  many  intellectual  beings  in  the  world  besides 
ourselves,  and  several  species  of  spirits,  who  are  subject  to  different 
laws  and  economies  from  those  of  mankind ;  when  we  see,  therefore, 
any  of  these  represented  naturally,  we  cannot  look  upon  the'  repre- 
sentation as  altogether  impossible  ;  nay,  many  are  prepossest  with 
such  false  opinions,  as  dispose  them  to  believe  these  particular  delu- 
sions ;  at  least,  we  have  all  heard  so  many  pleasing  relations  in 
favour  of  them,  that  we  do  not  care  for  seeing  through  the  falsehood, 
and  willingly  give  ourselves  up  to  so  agreeable  an  imposture. 

The  Ancients  have  not  much  of  this  poetry  among  them,  for, 
indeed,  almost  the  whole  substance  of  it  owes  its  original  to  the 
darkness  and  superstition  of  later  ages,  when  pious  frauds  were 
made  use  of  to  amuse  mankind,  and  frighten  them  into  a  sense  of 
their  duty.  Our  forefathers  looked  upon  Nature  with  more  reverence 
and  horror,  before  the  world  was  enlightened  by  learning  and 
philosophy,  and  loved  to  astonish  themselves  with  the  apprehensions 


200  ADDISON 

of  witchcraft,  prodigies,  charms,  and  enchantments.  There  was  not 
a  village  in  England,  that  had  not  a  ghost  in  it,  the  church-yards 
were  all  haunted,  every  large  common  had  a  circle  of  fairies  belong- 
ing to  it,  and  there  was  scarce  a  shepherd  to  be  met  with  who  had 
not  seen  a  spirit. 

Among  all  the  poets  of  this  kind  our  English  are  much  the  best, 
by  what  I  have  yet  seen ;  whether  it  be  that  we  abound  with  more 
stories  of  this  nature,  or  that  the  genius  of  our  country  is  fitter  for 
this  sort  of  poetry.  For  the  English  are  naturally  fanciful,  and 
very  often  disposed  by  that  gloominess  and  melancholy  of  temper, 
which  is  so  frequent  in  our  nation,  to  many  wild  notions  and  visions, 
to  which  others  are  not  so  liable. 

Among  the  English,  Shakespeare  has  incomparably  excelled  all 
others.  That  noble  extravagance  of  fancy  which  he  had  in  so  great 
perfection,  thoroughly  qualified  him  to  touch  this  weak  supersti- 
tious part  of  his  reader's  imagination ;  and  made  him  capable  of 
succeeding,  where  he  had  nothing  to  support  him  besides  the 
strength  of  his  own  genius.  There  is  something  so  wild  and  yet 
so  solemn  in  the  speeches  of  his  ghosts,  fairies,  witches,  and  the 
like  imaginary  persons,  that  we  cannot  forbear  thinking  them 
natural,  though  we  have  no  rule  by  which  to  judge  of  them,  and 
must  confess,  if  there  are  such  beings  in  the  world,  it  looks  highly 
probable  that  they  should  talk  and  act  as  he  has  represented  them. 

There  is  another  sort  of  imaginary  beings,  that  we  sometimes 
meet  with  among  the  poets,  when  the  author  represents  any  passion, 
appetite,  virtue,  or  vice,  under  a  visible  shape,  and  makes  it  a  per- 
son or  an  actor  in  his  poem.  Of  this  nature  are  the  descriptions 
of  Hunger  and  Envy  in  Ovid,  of  Fame  in  Virgil,  and  of  Sin  and 
Death  in  Milton.  We  find  a  whole  creation  of  the  like  shadowy 
persons  in  Spenser,  who  had  an  admirable  talent  in  representations 
of  this  kind.  I  have  discoursed  of  these  emblematical  persons  in 
former  papers,  and  shall  therefore  9nly  mention  them  in  this  place. 
Thus  we  see  how  many  ways  Poetry  addresses  itself  to  the  Imagin- 
ation, as  it  has  not  only  the  whole  circle  of  Nature  for  its  province, 
but  makes  new  worlds  of  its  own,  shews  us  persons  who  are  not  to 
be  found  in  being,  and  represents  even  the  faculties  of  the  Soul, 
with  her  several  virtues  and  vices,  in  a  sensible  shape  and  character. 


XXII 

POPE 

I.     SELECTIONS   FROM   THE   ESSAY   ON   CRITICISM1 

'T  is  hard  to  say,  if  greater  want  of  skill 
Appear  in  writing  or  in  judging  ill ; 
But,  of  the  two,  less  dang'rous  is  th'  offence 
To  tire  our  patience,  than  mislead  our  sense. 
Some  few  in  that,  but  numbers  err  in  this, 
Ten  censure  wrong  for  one  who  writes  amiss ; 
A  fool  might  once  himself  alone  expose, 
Now  one  in  verse  makes  many  more  in  prose. 

'Tis  with  our  judgments  as  our  watches,  none 
Go  just  alike,  yet  each  believes  his  own. 
In  poets  as  true  genius  is  but  rare, 
True  taste  as  seldom  is  the  critic's  share ; 
Both  must  alike  from  Heav'n  derive  their  light, 
These  born  to  judge,  as  well  as  those  to  write. 
Let  such  teach  others  who  themselves  excel, 
And  censure  freely  who  have  written  well. 
Authors  are  partial  to  their  wit,  'tis  true, 
But  are  not  critics  to  their  judgment  too? 

Yet  if  we  look  more  closely,  we  shall  find 
Most  have  the  seeds  of  judgment  in  their  inind : 
Nature  affords  at  least  a  glimm'ring  light ; 
The  lines,  tho'  touch'd  but  faintly,  are  drawn  right. 
But  as  the  slightest  sketch,  if  justly  trac'd, 

lrThe  only  passages  of  this  famous  verse-summary  of  "  neo-classic  "  ideas 
not  given  are  30-45  (an  unimportant  flirt  at  the  stupidity  of  certain  critics) ; 
and  the  long  and  not  uninteresting,  but  again  to  us  less  important  digression 
(452-611)  on  the  morals  of  Criticism  and  partly  of  Poetry. 

201 


202  POPE 

Is  by  ill-colouring  but  the  more  disgrac'd, 
So  by  false  learning  is  good  sense  defac'd: 
Some  are  bewilder'd  in  the  maze  of  schools, 
And  some  made  coxcombs  Nature  meant  but  fools. 
In  search  of  wit  these  lose  their  common  sense, 
And  then  turn  critics  in  their  own  defence. 

But  you  who  seek  to  give  and  merit  fame, 
And  justly  bear  a  Critic's  noble  name, 
Be  sure  yourself  and  your  own  reach  to  know, 
How  far  your  genius,  taste,  and  learning  go ; 
Launch  not  beyond  your  depth,  but  be  discreet, 
And  mark  that  point  where  sense  and  dullness  meet. 

Nature  to  all  things  fix'd  the  limits  fit, 
And  wisely  curb'd  proud  man's  pretending  wit. 
As  on  the  land  while  here  the  ocean  gains, 
In  other  parts  it  leaves  wide  sandy  plains; 
Thus  in  the  soul  while  memory  prevails, 
The  solid  pow'r  of  understanding  fails; 
Where  beams  of  warm  imagination  play, 
The  memory's  soft  figures  melt  away. 
One  science  only  will  one  genius  fit; 
So  vast  is  art,  so  narrow  human  wit : 
Not  only  bounded  to  peculiar  arts, 
But  oft  in  those  confin'd  to  single  parts. 
Like  kings  we  lose  the  conquests  gain'd  before, 
By  vain  ambition  still  to  make  them  more ; 
Each  might  his  sev'ral  province  well  command, 
Would  all  but  stoop  to  what  they  understand. 

First  follow  Nature,  and  your  judgment  frame 
By  her  just  standard,  which  is  still  the  same : 
Unerring  NATURE,  still  divinely  bright, 
One  clear,  unchang'd,  and  universal  light, 
Life,  force,  and  beauty,  must  to  all  impart, 
At  once  the  source,  and  end,  and  test  of  Art. 
Art  from  that  fund  each  just  supply  provides, 
Works  without  show,  and  without  pomp  presides : 


SELECTIONS  FROM  THE  ESSAY  ON   CRITICISM       203 

In  some  fair  body  thus  th'  informing  soul 

With  spirits  feeds,  with  vigour  fills  the  whole, 

Each  motion  guides,  and  ev'ry  nerve  sustains; 

Itself  unseen,  but  in  th'  effects,  remains. 

Some,  to  whom  Heav'n  in  wit  has  been  profuse, 

Want  as  much  more,  to  turn  it  to  its  use; 

For  wit  and  judgment  often  are  at  strife, 

Tho'  meant  each  other's  aid,  like  man  and  wife. 

'Tis  more  to  guide,  than  spur  the  Muse's  steed; 

Restrain  his  fury,  than  provoke  his  speed; 

The  winged  courser,  like  a  gen'rous  horse, 

Shows  most  true  mettle  when  you  check  his  course. 

Those  KULES  of  old  discovered,  not  devis'd, 
Are  Nature  still,  but  Nature  methodiz'd ; 
Nature,  like  liberty,  is  but  restrain'd 
By  the  same  laws  which  first  herself  ordain'd. 

Hear  how  learn'd  Greece  her  useful  rules  indites, 
When  to  repress,  and  when  indulge  our  flights : 
High  on  Parnassus'  top  her  sons  she  show'd, 
And  pointed  out  those  arduous  paths  they  trod; 
,Held  from  afar,  aloft,  th'  immortal  prize, 
And  urg'd  the  rest  by  equal  steps  to  rise. 
Just  precepts  thus  from  great  examples  giv'n, 
She  drew  from  them  what  they  deriv'd  from  Heav'n. 
The  gen'rous  Critic  fann'd  the  Poet's  fire, 
And  taught  the  world  with  reason  to  admire. 
Then  Criticism  the  Muse's  handmaid  prov'd, 
To  dress  her  charms,  and  make  her  more  belov'd: 
But  following  wits  from  that  intention  stray'd, 
Who  could  not  win  the  mistress,  woo'd  the  maid; 
Against  the  Poets  their  own  arms  they  turn'd, 
Sure  to  hate  most  the  men  from  whom  they  learn'd. 
So  modern  'pothecaries,  taught  the  art 
By  doctor's  bills  to  play  the  doctor's  part, 
Bold  in  the  practice  of  mistaken  rules, 
Prescribe,  apply,  and  call  their  masters  fools. 
Some  on  the  leaves  of  ancient  authors  prey, 


204  POPE 

Nor  time  nor  moths  e'er  spoil'd  so  much  as  they. 
Some  drily  plain,  without  invention's  aid, 
Write  dull  receipts  how  poems  may  be  made. 
These  leave  the  sense,  their  learning  to  display, 
And  those  explain  the  meaning  quite  away. 

You  then  whose  judgment  the  right  course  would  steer, 
Know  well  each  ANCIENT'S  proper  character; 
His  fable,  subject,  scope  in  ev'ry  page; 
Eeligion,  country,  genius  of  his  age : 
Without  all  these  at  once  before  your  eyes, 
Cavil  you  may,  but  never  criticize. 
Be  Homer's  works  your  study  and  delight, 
Read  them  by  day,  and  meditate  by  night; 
Thence  form  your  judgment,  thence  your  maxims  bring, 
And  trace  the  Muses  upward  to  their  spring. 
Still  with  itself  compar'd,  his  text  peruse; 
And  let  your  comment  be  the  Mantuan  Muse. 

When  first  young  Maro  in  his  boundless  mind 
A  work  t'  outlast  immortal  Rome  design'd, 
Perhaps  he  seem'd  above  the  critic's  law, 
And  but  from  Nature's  fountains  scorn'd  to  draw: 
But  when  t'  examine  ev'ry  part  he  came, 
Nature  and  Homer  were,  he  found,  the  same. 
Convinc'd,  amaz'd,  he  checks  the  bold  design; 
And  rules  as  strict  his  labour'd  work  confine, 
As  if  the  Stagirite  o'erlook'd  each  line. 
Learn  hence  for  ancient  rules  a  just  esteem ; 
To  copy  nature  is  to  copy  them. 

Some  beauties  yet  no  precepts  can  declare, 
For  there's  a  happiness  as  well  as  care. 
Music  resembles  poetry,  in  each 
Are  nameless  graces  which  no  methods  teach, 
And  which  a  master-hand  alone  can  reach. 
If,  where  the  rules  not  far  enough  extend, 
(Since  rules  were  made  but  to  promote  their  end) 
Some  lucky  licence  answer  to  the  full 
Th'  intent  propos'd,  that  licence  is  a  rule. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  THE  ESSAY  ON  CRITICISM       205 

Thus  Pegasus,  a  nearer  way  to  take, 

May  boldly  deviate  from  the  common  track; 

From  vulgar  bounds  with  brave  disorder  part, 

And  snatch  a  grace  beyond  the  reach  of  art, 

Which  without  passing  thro'  the  judgment,  gains 

The  heart,  and  all  its  end  at  once  attains. 

In  prospects  thus,  some  objects  please  our  eyes, 

Which  out  of  nature's  common  order  rise, 

The  shapeless  rock,  or  hanging  precipice. 

Great  wits  sometimes  may  gloriously  offend, 

And  rise  to  faults  true  critics  dare  not  mend. 

But  tho'  the  Ancients  thus  their  rules  invade, 

(As  Kings  dispense  with  laws  themselves  have  made) 

Moderns,  beware !   or  if  you  must  offend 

Against  the  precept,  ne'er  transgress  its  end ; 

Let  it  be  seldom,  and  compell'd  by  need ; 

And  have,  at  least,  their  precedent  to  plead. 

The  critic  else  proceeds  without  remorse, 

Seizes  your  fame,  and  puts  his  laws  in  force. 

I  know  there  are,  to  whose  presumptuous  thoughts 
Those  freer  beauties,  ev'n  in  them,  seem  faults. 
Some  figures  monstrous  and  mis-shap'd  appear, 
Consider'd  singly,  or  beheld  too  near, 
Which,  but  proportion'd  to  their  light,  or  place, 
Due  distance  reconciles  to  form  and  grace. 
A  prudent  chief  not  always  must  display 
His  pow'rs  in  equal  ranks,  and  fair  array, 
But  with  th'  occasion  and  the  place  comply, 
Conceal  his  force,  nay  seem  sometimes  to  fly. 
Those  oft  are  stratagems  which  error  seem, 
Nor  is  it  Homer  nods,  but  we  that  dream. 

Still  green  with  bays  each  ancient  altar  stands, 
Above  the  reach  of  sacrilegious  hands  ; 
Secure  from  flames,  from  envy's  fiercer  rage, 
Destructive  war,  and  all-involving  age. 
See,  from  each  clime  the  learn'd  their  incense  bring  ! 
Hear,  in  all  tongues  consenting  paeans  ring! 


206  POPE 

In  praise  so  just  let  ev'ry  voice  be  join'd, 

And  fill  the  gen'ral  chorus  of  mankind. 

Hail,  Bards  triumphant !    born  in  happier  days ; 

Immortal  heirs  of  universal  praise ! 

Whose  honours  with  increase  of  ages  grow, 

As  streams  roll  down,  enlarging  as  they  flow ; 

Nations  unborn  your  mighty  names  shall  sound, 

And  worlds  applaud  that  must  not  yet  be  found! 

Oh  may  some  spark  of  your  celestial  fire 

The  last,  the  meanest  of  your  sons  inspire, 

(That  on  weak  wings,  from  far,  pursues  your  flights ; 

Glows  while  he  reads,  but  trembles  as  he  writes) 

To  teach  vain  wits  a  science  little  known, 

T'  admire  superior  sense,  and  doubt  their  own ! 

Of  all  the  causes  which  conspire  to  blind 
Man's  erring  judgment,  and  misguide  the  mind, 
What  the  weak  head  with  strongest  bias  rules, 
Is  Pride,  the  never-failing  vice  of  fools. 
Whatever  nature  has  in  worth  denied, 
She  gives  in  large  recruits  of  needful  pride ; 
For  as  in  bodies,  thus  in  souls,  we  find 
What  wants  in  blood  and  spirits,  swell'd  with  wind: 
Pride,  where  wit  fails,  steps  in  to  our  defence, 
And  fills  up  all  the  mighty  void  of  sense. 
If  once  right  reason  drives  that  cloud  away, 
Truth  breaks  upon  us  with  resistless  day. 
Trust  not  yourself;  but  your  defects  to  know, 
Make  use  of  ev'ry  friend  —  and  ev'ry  foe. 

A  little  learning  is  a  dang'rous  thing; 
Drink  deep,  or  taste  not  the  Pierian  spring : 
There  shallow  draughts  intoxicate  the  brain, 
And  drinking  largely  sobers  us  again. 
Fir'd  at  first  sight  with  what  the  Muse  imparts, 
In  fearless  youth  we  tempt  the  heights  of  Arts, 
While  from  the  bounded  level  of  our  mind 
Short  views  we  take,  nor  see  the  lengths  behind; 
But  more  advanc'd,  behold  with  strange  surprise 


SELECTIONS  FROM  THE  ESSAY  ON  CRITICISM       207 

New  distant  scenes  of  endless  science  rise ! 
So  pleas'd  at  first  the  tow'ring  Alps  we  try, 
Mount  o'er  the  vales,  and  seem  to  tread  the  sky, 
Th'  eternal  snows  appear  already  past, 
And  the  first  clouds  and  mountains  seem  the  last; 
But,  those  attain'd,  we  tremble  to  survey 
The  growing  labours  of  the  lengthen'd  way, 
Th'  increasing  prospect  tires  our  wand'ring  eyes, 
Hills  peep  o'er  hills,  and  Alps  on  Alps  arise ! 

A  perfect  judge  will  read  each  work  of  wit 
With  the  same  spirit  that  its  author  writ: 
Survey  the  WHOLE,  nor  seek  slight  faults  to  find 
Where  nature  moves,  and  rapture  warms  the  mind; 
Nor  lose,  for  that  malignant  dull  delight, 
The  gen'rous  pleasure  to  be  charm'd  with  wit. 
But  in  such  lays  as  neither  ebb,  nor  flow, 
Correctly  cold,  and  regularly  low, 
That  shunning  faults,  one  quiet  tenour  keep ; 
We  cannot  blame  indeed  —  but  we  may  sleep. 
In  wit,  as  nature,  what  affects  our  hearts 
Is  not  th'  exactness  of  peculiar  parts  ; 
'T  is  not  a  lip,  or  eye,  we  beauty  call, 
But  the  joint  force  and  full  result  of  all. 
Thus  when  we  view  some  well-proportion'd  dome, 
(The  world's  just  wonder,  and  ev'n  thine,  0  Home  !) 
No  single  parts  unequally  surprise, 
All  comes  united  to  th'  admiring  eyes ; 
No  monstrous  height,  or  breadth,  or  length  appear; 
The  Whole  at  once  is  bold,  and  regular. 

Whoever  thinks  a  faultless  piece  to  see, 
Thinks  what  ne'er  was,  nor  is,  nor  e'er  shall  be. 
In  every  work  regard  the  writer's  end, 
Since  none  can  compass  more  than  they  intend; 
And  if  the  means  be  just,  the  conduct  true, 
Applause,  in  spite  of  trivial  faults,  is  due ; 
As  men  of  breeding,  sometimes  men  of  wit, 
T'  avoid  great  errors,  must  the  less  commit: 


208  POPE 

Neglect  the  rules  each  verbal  critic  lays, 
For  not  to  know  some  trifles,  is  a  praise. 
Most  critics,  fond  of  some  subservient  art, 
Still  make  the  whole  depend  upon  a  part: 
They  talk  of  principles,  but  notions  prize, 
And  all  to  one  lov'd  folly  sacrifice. 

Once  on  a  time,  La  Mancha's  knight,  they  say, 
A  certain  bard  encount'ring  on  the  way, 
Discours'd  in  terms  as  just,  with  looks  as  sage, 
As  e'er  could  Dennis  of  the  Grecian  stage ; 
Concluding  all  were  desp'rate  sots  and  fools, 
Who  durst  depart  from  Aristotle's  rules. 
Our  author,  happy  in  a  judge  so  nice, 
Produc'd  his  play,  and  begg'd  the  knight's  advice; 
Made  him  observe  the  subject,  and  the  plot, 
The  manners,  passions,  unities ;   what  not  ? 
All  which,  exact  to  rule,  were  brought  about, 
Were  but  a  combat  in  the  lists  left  out. 
"  What !  leave  the  combat  out  ? "  exclaims  the  knight ; 
Yes,  or  we  must  renounce  the  Stagirite. 
"Not  so  by  Heav'n"  (he  answers  in  a  rage), 
"Knights,  squires,  and  steeds,  must  enter  on  the  stage." 
So  vast  a  throng  the  stage  can  ne'er  contain. 
"Then  build  a  new,  or  act  it  in  a  plain." 

Thus  critics,  of  less  judgment  than  caprice, 
Curious  not  knowing,  not  exact  but  nice, 
Form  short  ideas ;  and  offend  in  arts 
(As  most  in  manners)  by  a  love  to  parts. 

Some  to  Conceit  alone  their  taste  confine, 
And  glitt'ring  thoughts  struck  out  at  ev'ry  line ; 
Pleas'd  with  a  work  where  nothing 's  just  or  fit ; 
One  glaring  chaos  and  wild  heap  of  wit. 
Poets  like  painters,  thus,  unskill'd  to  trace 
The  naked  nature  and  the  living  grace, 
With  gold  and  jewels  cover  ev'ry  part,  • 
And  hide  with  ornaments  their  want  of  art. 
True  wit  is  nature  to  advantage  dress'd, 


SELECTIONS  FROM   THE  ESSAY  ON  CRITICISM       209 

What  oft  was  thought,  but  ne'er  so  well  express'd ; 

Something,  whose  truth  convinc'd  at  sight  we  find, 

That  gives  us  back  the  image  of  our  mind. 

As  shades  more  sweetly  recommend  the  light, 

So  modest  plainness  sets  off  sprightly  wit. 

For  works  may  have  more  wit  than  does  'em  good, 

As  bodies  perish  thro'  excess  of  blood. 

Others  for  Language  all  their  care  express, 
And  value  books,  as  women  men,  for  dress : 
Their  praise  is  still, — the  Style  is  excellent: 
The  Sense,  they  humbly  take  upon  content. 
Words  are  like  leaves ;  and  where  they  most  abound, 
Much  fruit  of  sense  beneath  is  rarely  found, 
False  eloquence,  like  the  prismatic  glass, 
Its  gaudy  colours  spreads  on  ev'ry  place; 
The  face  of  nature  we  no  more  survey, 
All  glares  alike,  without  distinction  gay: 
But  true  expression,  like  th'  unchanging  sun, 
Clears  and  improves  whate'er  it  shines  upon, 
It  gilds  all  objects,  but  it  alters  none. 
Expression  is  the  dress  of  thought,  and  still 
Appears  more  decent,  as  more  suitable ; 
A  vile  conceit  in  pompous  words  express'd, 
Is  like  a  clown  in  regal  purple  dress'd : 
For  diff'rent  styles  with  diff'rent  subjects  sort, 
As  several  garbs  with  country,  town, 'and  court. 
Some  by  old  words  to  fame  have  made  pretence,- 
Ancients  in  phrase,  mere  moderns  in  their  sense ; 
Such  labour'd  nothings,  in  so  strange  a  style, 
Amaze  th'  unlearn'd,  and  make  the  learned  smile. 
Unlucky,  as  Fungoso  in  the  play, 
These  sparks  with  awkward  vanity  display 
What  the  fine  gentleman  wore  yesterday ; 
And  but  so  mimic  ancient  wits  at  best, 
As  apes  our  grandsires,  in  their  doublets  drest. 
In  words,  as  fashions,  the  same  rule  will  hold; 
Alike  fantastic,  if  too  new,  or  old: 


210  POPE 

Be  not  the  first  by  whom  the  new  are  tried, 
Nor  yet  the  last  to  lay  the  old  aside. 

But  most  by  Numbers  judge  a  poet's  song;    • 
And  smooth  or  rough,  with  them  is  right  or  wrong: 
In  the  bright  Muse  though  thousand  charms  conspire, 
Her  voice  is  all  these  tuneful  fools  admire ; 
Who  haunt  Parnassus  but  to  please  their  ear, 
Not  mend  their  minds ;  as  some  to  church  repair, 
Not  for  the  doctrine,  but  the  music  there. 
These  equal  syllables  alone  require, 
Tho'  oft  the  ear  the  open  vowels  tire ; 
While  expletives  their  feeble  aid  do  join ; 
And  ten  low  words  oft  creep  in  one  dull  line : 
While  they  ring  round  the  same  unvaried  chimes, 
With  sure  returns  of  still  expected  rhymes ; 
Where-e'er  you  find  "the  cooling  western  breeze," 
In  the  next  line,  it  "  whispers  through  the  trees : " 
If  crystal  streams  "with  pleasing  murmurs  creep," 
The  reader's  threaten'd  (not  in  vain)  with  "sleep:" 
Then,  at  the  last  and  only  couplet  fraught 
With  some  unmeaning  thing  they  call  a  thought, 
A  needless  Alexandrine  ends  the  song, 
That,  like  a  wounded  snake,  drags  its  slow  length  along. 
Leave  such  to  tune  their  own  dull  rhymes,  and  know 
What 's  roundly  smooth  or  languishingly  slow ; 
And  praise  the  easy  vigour  of  a  line, 
Where  Denham's  strength,  and  Waller's  sweetness  join. 
•True  ease  in  writing  comes  from  art,  not  chance, 
As  those  move  easiest  who  have  learn'd  to  dance. 
'T  is  not  enough  no  harshness  gives  offence, 
The  sound  must  seem  an  echo  to  the  sense : 
Soft  is  the  strain  when  Zephyr  gently  blows, 
And  the  smooth  stream  in  smoother  numbers  flows; 
But  when  loud  surges  lash  the  sounding  shore, 
The  hoarse,  rough  verse  should  like  the  torrent  roar: 
When  Ajax  strives  some  rock's  vast  weight  to  throw, 
The  line  too  labours,  and  the  words  move  slow ; 


SELECTIONS  FROM  THE  ESSAY  ON  CRITICISM       211 

Not  so,  when  swift  Camilla  scours  the  plain, 

Flies  o'er  th'  unbending  corn,  and  skims  along  the  main. 

Hear  how  Timotheus'  varied  lays  surprise, 

And  bid  alternate  passions  fall  and  rise ! 

While,  at  each  change,  the  son  of  Libyan  Jove 

Now  burns  with  glory,  and  then  melts  with  love, 

Now  his  fierce  eyes  with  sparkling  fury  glow, 

Now  sighs  steal  out,  and  tears  begin  to  flow : 

Persians  and  Greeks  like  turns  of  nature  found, 

And  the  world's  victor  stood  subdu'd  by  Sound ! 

The  pow'r  of  music  all  our  hearts  allow, 

And  what  Timotheus  was,  is  DRYDEX  now. 

Avoid  extremes ;  and  shun  the  fault  of  such, 
Who  still  are  pleas'd  too  little  or  too  much. 
At  ev'ry  trifle  scorn  to  take  offence, 
That  always  shows  great  pride,  or  little  sense ; 
Those  heads,  as  stomachs,  are  not  sure  the  best, 
Which  nauseate  all,  and  nothing  can  disgest. 
Yet  let  not  each  gay  turn  thy  rapture  move ; 
For  fools  admire,  but  men  of  sense  approve : 
As  things  seem  large  which  we  thro'  mists  descry, 
Dullness  is  ever  apt  to  magnify. 

Some  foreign  writers,  some  our  own  despise ; 
The  Ancients  only,  or  the  Moderns  prize. 
Thus  Wit,  like  Faith,  by  each  man  is  applied 
To  one  small  sect,  and  all  are  damn'd  beside. 
Meanly  they  seek  the  blessing  to  confine, 
And  force  that  sun  but  on  a  part  to  shine, 
Which  not  alone  the  southern  wit  sublimes, 
But  ripens  spirits  in  cold  northern  climes ; 
Which  from  the  first  has  shone  on  ages  past, 
Enlights  the  present,  and  shall  warm  the  last; 
Tho'  each  may  feel  increases  and  decays, 
And  see  now  clearer  and  now  darker  days. 
Regard  not  then  if  wit  be  old  or  new, 
But  blame  the  false,  and  value  still  the  true. 


212  POPE 

Some  ne'er  advance  a  judgment  of  their  own, 

But  catch  the  spreading  notion  of  the  town; 

They  reason  and  conclude  by  precedent, 

And  own  stale  nonsense  which  they  ne'er  invent. 

Some  judge  of  authors'  names,  not  works,  and  then 

Nor  praise  nor  blame  the  writings,  but  the  men. 

Of  all  this  servile  herd  the  worst  is  he 

That  in  proud  dullness  joins  with  Quality, 

A  constant  critic  at  the  great  man's  board, 

To  fetch  and  carry  nonsense  for  my  lord. 

What  woful  stuff  this  madrigal  would  be, 

In  some  starv'd  hackney  sonneteer,  or  me? 

But  let  a  lord  once  own  the  happy  lines, 

How  the  wit  brightens  !  how  the  style  refines ! 

Before  his  sacred  name  flies  ev'ry  fault, 

And  each  exalted  stanza  teems  with  thought! 

The  vulgar  thus  through  imitation  err; 
As  oft  the  learn'd  by  being  singular ; 
So  much  they  scorn  the  crowd,  that  if  the  throng 
By  chance  go  right,  they  purposely  go  wrong ; 
So  schismatics  the  plain  believers  quit, 
And  are  but  damn'd  for  having  too  much  wit. 
Some  praise  at  morning  what  they  blame  at  night; 
But  always  think  the  last  opinion  right. 
A  Muse  by  these  is  like  a  mistress  us'd, 
This  hour  she 's  idoliz'd,  the  next  abus'd ; 
While  their  weak  heads,  like  towns  unfortified, 
'Twixt  sense  and  nonsense  daily  change  their  side. 
Ask  them  the  cause ;  they  're  wiser  still,  they  say ; 
And  still  to-morrow  's  wiser  than  to-day. 
We  think  our  fathers  fools,  so  wise  we  grow, 
Our  wiser  sons,  no  doubt,  will  think  us  so. 
Once  School-divines  this  zealous  isle  o'er-spread ; 
Who  knew  most  Sentences,  was  deepest  read; 
Faith,  Gospel,  all,  seem'd  made  to  be  disputed, 
And  none  had  sense  enough  to  be  confuted : 
Scotists  and  Thomists,  now,  in  peace  remain, 


SELECTIONS   FROM  THE  ESSAY  ON  CRITICISM       213 

Amidst  their  kindred  cobwebs  in  Duck-lane. 

If  Faith  itself  has  diff'rent  dresses  worn, 

What  wonder  modes  in  Wit  should  take  their  turn? 

Oft',  leaving  what  is  natural  and  fit, 

The  current  folly  proves  the  ready  wit; 

And  authors  think  their  reputation  safe, 

Which  lives  as  long  as  fools  are  pleas'd  to  laugh. 

The  bookful  blockhead,  ignorantly  read, 
With  loads  of  learned  lumber  in  his  head, 
With  his  own  tongue  still  edifies  his  ears, 
And  always  list'ning  to  himself  appears. 
All  books  he  reads,  and  all  he  reads  assails, 
From  Dryden's  Fables  down  to  Durfey's  Tales. 
With  him,  most  authors  steal  their  works,  or  buy; 
Garth  did  not  write  his  own  Dispensary. 
Name  a  new  play,  and  he's  the  poet's  friend, 
Nay  show'd  his  faults  —  but  when  would  poets  mend? 
No  place  so  sacred  from  such  fops  is  barr'd, 
Nor  is  Paul's  church  more  safe  than  Paul's  churchyard : 
Nay,  fly  to  altars ;  there  they  '11  talk  you  dead : 
For  fools  rush  in  where  angels  fear  to  tread. 
Distrustful  sense  with  modest  caution  speaks, 
It  still  looks  home,  and  short  excursions  makes ; 
But  rattling  nonsense   in  full  volleys  breaks, 
And  never  shock'd,  and  never  turn'd  aside, 
Bursts  out,  resistless,  with  a  thund'ring  tide. 

But  where 's  the  man,  who  counsel  can  bestow, 
Still  pleas'd  to  teach,  and  yet  not  proud  to  know? 
Unbiass'd,  or  by  favour,  or  by  spite ; 
Not  dully  prepossess'd,  nor  blindly  right; 
Tho'  learn'd,  well-bred  ;  and  tho'  well-bred,  sincere, 
Modestly  bold,  and  humanly  severe : 
Who  to  a  friend  his  faults  can  freely  show, 
And  gladly  praise  the  merit  of  a  foe? 
Blest  with  a  taste  exact,  yet  unconfin'd ; 
A  knowledge  both  of  books  and  human  kind : 


214  POPE 

Gen'rous  converse ;  a  soul  exempt  from  pride ; 
And  love  to  praise,  with  reason  on  his  side? 

Such  once  were  Critics ;  such  the  happy  few, 
Athens  and  Rome  in  better  ages  knew. 
The  mighty  Stagirite  first  left  the  shore, 
Spread  all  his  sails,  and  durst  the  deeps  explore : 
He  steer'd  securely,  and  discover'd  far, 
Led  by  the  light  of  the  Maeonian  Star. 
Poets,  a  race  long  unconfin'd,  and  free, 
Still  fond  and  proud  of  savage  liberty, 
Receiv'd  his  laws ;  and  stood  convinc'd  't  was  fit, 
Who  conquer'd  Nature,  should  preside  o'er  Wit. 

Horace  still  charms  with  graceful  negligence, 
And  without  method  talks  us  into  sense, 
Will,  like  a  friend,  familiarly  convey 
The  truest  notions  in  the  easiest  way. 
He,  who  supreme  in  judgment,  as  in  wit, 
Might  boldly  censure,  as  he  boldly  writ, 
Yet  judg'd  with  coolness,  tho'  he  sung  with  fire ; 
His  precepts  teach  but  what  his  works  inspire. 
Our  critics  take  a  contrary  extreme, 
They  judge  with  fury,  but  they  write  with  fle'me 
Nor  suffers  Horace  more  in  wrong  translations 
By  wits,  than  critics  in  as  wrong  quotations. 

See  Dionysius  Homer's  thoughts  refine, 
And  call  new  beauties  forth  from  ev'ry  line ! 

Fancy  and  art  in  gay  Petronius  please, 
The  scholar's  learning,  with  the  courtier's  ease. 

In  grave  Quintilian's  copious  work,  we  find 
The  justest  rules,  and  clearest  method  join'd: 
Thus  useful  arms  in  magazines  we  place, 
All  rang'd  in  order,  and  dispos'd  with  grace, 
But  less  to  please  the  eye,  than  arm  the  hand, 
Still  fit  for  use,  and  ready  at  command. 

Thee,  bold  Longinus  !  all  the  Nine  inspire, 
And  bless  their  Critic  with  a  Poet's  fire. 
An  ardent  judge,  who  zealous  in  his  trust, 


SELECTIONS  FROM  THE  ESSAY  ON  CRITICISM       215 

With  warmth  gives  sentence,  yet  is  always  just ; 
Whose  own  example  strengthens  all  his  laws ; 
And  is  himself  that  great  Sublime  he  draws. 

Thus  long  succeeding  critics  justly  reign'd, 
Licence  repress'd,  and  useful  laws  ordain'd. 
Learning  and  Rome  alike  in  empire  grew ; 
And  arts  still  follow'd  where  her  eagles  flew ; 
From  the  same  foes,  at  last,  both  felt  their  doom, 
And  the  same  age  saw  learning  fall,  and  Rome. 
With  tyranny,  then  superstition  join'd, 
As  that  the  body,  this  enslav'd  the  mind; 
Much  was  believ'd,  but  little  understood, 
And  to  be  dull  was  constru'd  to  be  good; 
A  second  deluge  learning  thus  o'er-run, 
And  the  monks  finish'd  what  the  Goths  begun. 

At  length  Erasmus,  that  great  injur'd  name, 
(The  glory  of  the  priesthood,  and  the  shame!) 
Stemm'd  the  wild  torrent  of  a  barb'rous  age, 
And  drove  those  holy  Vandals  off  the  stage. 

But  see !  each  Muse,  in  LEO'S  golden  days, 
Starts  from  her  trance,  and  trims  her  wither'd  bays, 
Rome's  ancient  Genius,  o'er  its  ruins  spread, 
Shakes  off  the  dust,  and  rears  his  rev'rend  head. 
Then  Sculpture  and  her  sister-arts  revive ; 
Stones  leap'd  to  form,  and  rocks  began  to  live ; 
With  sweeter  notes  each  rising  temple  rung; 
A  Raphael  painted,  and  a  Vida  sung. 
Immortal  Vida:  on  whose  honour'd  -brow 
The  Poet's  bays  and  Critic's  ivy  grow : 
Cremona  now  shall  ever  boast  thy  name, 
As  next  in  place  to  Mantua,  next  in  fame ! 

But  soon  by  impious  arms  from  Latium  chas'd, 
Their  ancient  bounds  the  banish'd  Muses  pass'd; 
Thence  arts  o'er  all  the  northern  world  advance, 
But  Critic-learning  flourished  most  in  France : 
The  rules  a  nation,  born  to  serve,  obeys ; 
And  Boileau  still  in  right  of  Horace  sways. 


216  POPE 

But  we,  brave  Britons,  foreign  laws  despis'd, 

And  kept  unconquer'd,  and  unciviliz'd ; 

Fierce  for  the  liberties  of  wit,  and  bold, 

We  still  defied  the  Komans,  as  of  old. 

Yet  some  there  were,  among  the  sounder  few 

Of  those  who  less  presum'd,  and  better  knew, 

Who  durst  assert  the  juster  ancient  cause, 

And  here  restor'd  Wit's  fundamental  laws. 

Such  was  the  Muse,  whose  rules  and  practice  tell, 

"Nature's  chief  master-piece  is  writing  well." 

Such  was  Roscommon,  not  more  learn'd  than  good, 

With  manners  gen'rous  as  his  noble  blood ; 

To  him  the  wit  of  Greece  and  Kome  was  known, 

And  ev'ry  author's  merit,  but  his  own. 

Such  late  was  Walsh  —  the  Muse's  judge  and  friend, 

Who  justly  knew  to  blame  or  to  commend; 

To  failings  mild,  but  zealous  for  desert ; 

The  clearest  head,  and  the  sincerest  heart. 

This  humble  praise,  lamented  shade !  receive, 

This  praise  at  least  a  grateful  Muse  may  give : 

The  Muse,  whose  early  voice  you  taught  to  sing, 

Prescrib'd  her  heights,  and  prun'd  her  tender  wing, 

(Her  guide  now  lost)  no  more  attempts  to  rise, 

But  in  low  numbers  short  excursions  tries : 

Content,  if  hence  th'  unlearn'd  their  wants  may  view, 

The  learn'd  reflect  on  what  before  they  knew : 

Careless  of  censure,  nor  too  fond  of  fame ; 

Still  pleas'd  to  praise,  yet  not  afraid  to  blame, 

Averse  alike  to  flatter,  or  offend ; 

Not  free  from  faults,  nor  yet  too  vain  to  mend. 


FROM  THE  EPISTLE  TO  AUGUSTUS  217 

II.     FROM   THE    EPISTLE    TO   AUGUSTUS1 

Authors,  like  coins,  grow  dear  as  they  grow  old; 
It  is  the  rust  we  value,  not  the  gold. 
Chaucer's  worst  ribaldry  is  learn'd  by  rote, 
And  beastly  Skelton  heads  of  houses  quote : 
One  likes  no  language  but  the  Faery  Queen; 
A  Scot  will  fight  for   Christ's  Kirk  o1  the  Green; 
And  each  true  Briton  is  to  Ben  so  civil, 
He  swears  the  Muses  met  him  at  the  Devil. 

Tho'  justly  Greece  her  eldest  sons  admires, 
Why  should  not  we  be  wiser  than  our  sires? 
In  ev'ry  public  virtue  we  excel ; 
We  build,  we  paint,  we  sing,  we  dance  as  well, 
And  learned  Athens  to  our  art  must  stoop, 
Could  she  behold  us  tumbling  thro'  a  hoop. 

If  time  improve  our  wit  as  well  as  wine, 
Say  at  what  age  a  poet  grows  divine? 
Shall  we,  or  shall  we  not,  account  him  so, 
Who  died,  perhaps,  an  hundred  years  ago? 
End  all  dispute ;  and  fix  the  year  precise 
When  British  bards  begin  t'  immortalize  ? 

"Who  lasts  a  century  can  have  no  flaw, 
"I  hold  that  wit  a  Classic,  good  in  law." 

Suppose  he  wants  a  year,  will  you  compound? 
And  shall  we  deem  him  Ancient,  right  and  sound, 
Or  damn  to  all  eternity  at  once, 
At  ninety-nine,  a  Modern  and  a  dunce? 

"  We  shall  not  quarrel  for  a  year  or  two ; 
"By  courtesy  of  England,  he  may  do." 

1  This  might  of  course,  as  is  always  the  case  with  Pope,  be  very  extensively 
annotated.  But  here  it  is  enough  to  observe  that  every  expression  addressed  or 
referring  to  George  II  is  ironical,  and  that  the  interesting  and  famous  passage 
"We  conquered  France,"  etc.,  refers  to  some  period  of  English  history  which 
has  entirely  escaped  English  historians.  We  begin  at  1.  35.  The  actual  open- 
ing, 1-34,  merely  contains  an  address  to  the  King  of  the  politely  impertinent 
kind  just  glanced  at.  The  other  omitted  passages  are  either  of  the  same  drift, 
or  concerned  with  morals  and  manners  rather  than  literature. 


218  POPE 

Then  by  the  rule  that  made  the  Horse-tail  bare, 
I  pluck  out  year  by  year,  as  hair  by  hair, 
And  melt  down  Ancients  like  a  heap  of  snow : 
While  you  to  measure  merits,  look  in  Stowe, 
And  estimating  authors  by  the  year, 
Bestow  a  garland  only  on  a  bier. 

Shakespeare  (whom  you  and  ev'ry  play-house  bill 
Style  the  divine,  the  matchless,  what  you  will) 
For  gain,  not  glory,  wing'd  his  roving  flight, 
And  grew  immortal  in  his  own  despite. 
Ben,  old  and  poor,  as  little  seem'd  to  heed 
The  life  to  come,  in  ev'ry  poet's  creed. 
Who  now  reads  Cowley  ?  if  he  pleases  yet, 
His  moral  pleases,  not  his  pointed  wit : 
Forget  his  epic,  nay  Pindaric  art ; 
But  still  I  love  the  language  of  his  heart. 

"  Yet  surely,  surely,  these  were  famous  men  ! 
"What  boy  but  hears  the  sayings  of  old  Ben? 
"In  all  debates  where  critics  bear  a  part, 
"Not  one  but  nods,  and  talks  of  Jonson's  Art, 
"  Of  Shakespeare's  Nature,  and  of  Cowley's  Wit ; 
"How  Beaumont's  judgment  check'd  what  Fletcher  writ; 
"  How  Shad  well  hasty,  Wycherley  was  slow ; 
"But  for  the  passions,  Southern  sure  and  Howe. 
"  These,  only  these,  support  the  crowded  stage, 
"From  eldest  Hey  wood  down  to  Gibber's  age." 

All  this  may  be ;  the  People's  voice  is  odd, 
It  is,  and  it  is  not,  the  voice  of  God. 
To   Gammer  Gurton  if  it  give  the  bays, 
And  yet  deny  the   Careless  Husband  praise, 
Or  say  our  fathers  never  broke  a  rule; 
Why  then,  I  say,  the  public  is  a  fool. 
But  let  them  own,  that  greater  faults  than  we 
They  had,  and  greater  virtues,  I  '11  agree. 
Spenser  himself  affects  the  obsolete, 
And  Sidney's  verse  halts  ill  on  Roman  feet : 
Milton's  strong  pinion  now  not  Heav'n  can  bound, 


FROM  THE  EPISTLE.  TO   AUGUSTUS  219 

Now  serpent-like,  in  prose  he  sweeps  the  ground, 
In  quibbles  angel  and  archangel  join, 
And  God  the  Father  turns  a  School-divine. 
Not  that  I  'd  lop  the  beauties  from  his  book, 
Like  slashing  Bentley  with  his  desp'rate  hook, 
Or  damn  all  Shakespeare,  like  th'  affected  fool 
At  court,  who  hates  whate'er  he  read  at  school. 

But  for  the  wits  of  either  Charles's  days, 
The  mob  of  gentlemen  who  wrote  with  ease ; 
Sprat,  Carew,  Sedley,  and  a  hundred  more, 
(Like  twinkling  stars  the  Miscellanies  o'er) 
One  simile,  that  solitary  shines 
In  the  dry  desert  of  a  thousand  lines, 
Or  lengthen'd  thought  that  gleams  through  many  a  page, 
Has  sanctified  whole  poems  for  an  age. 
I  lose  my  patience,  and  I  own  it  too, 
When  works  are  censur'd,  not  as  bad  but  new ; 
While  if  our  elders  break  all  reason's  laws, 
These  fools  demand  not  pardon,  but  applause. 

On  Avon's  bank,  where  flow'rs  eternal  blow, 
If  I  but  ask,  if  any  weed  can  grow ; 
One  tragic  sentence  if  I  dare  deride 
Which  Betterton's  grave  action  dignified, 
Or  well-mouth'd  Booth  with  emphasis  proclaims, 
(Tho'  but,  perhaps,  a  muster-roll  of  names) 
How  will  our  fathers  rise  up  in  a  rage, 
And  swear,  all  shame  is  lost  in  George's  agej 
You'd  think  no  fools  disgrac'd  the  former  reign, 
Did  not  some  grave  examples  yet  remain, 
Who  scorn  a  lad  should  teach  his  father  skill, 
And,  having  once  been  wrong,  will  be  so  still. 
He,  who  to  seem  more  deep  than  you  or  I, 
Extols  old  bards,  or  Merlin's  prophecy, 
Mistake  him  not ;  he  envies,  not  admires, 
And  to  debase  the  sons,  exalts  the  sires. 
Had  ancient  times  conspir'd  to  disallow 
What  then  was  new,  what  had  been  ancient  now? 


220  POPE 

Or  what  remain'd,  so  worthy  to  be  read 
By  learned  critics,  of  the  mighty  dead? 

In  days  of  ease,  when  now  the  weary  sword 
Was  sheath'd,  and  Luxury  with   Charles  restor'd; 
In  ev'ry  taste  of  foreign  Courts  improv'd, 
"All,  by  the  King's  example,  liv'd  and  lov'd." 
Then  peers  grew  proud  in  horsemanship  t'  excel, 
Newmarket's  glory  rose,  as  Britain's  fell ; 
The  soldier  breath'd  the  gallantries  of  France, 
And  ev'ry  flow'ry  courtier  writ  romance. 
Then  marble,  soften'd  into  life,  grew  warm : 
And  yielding  metal  flow'd  to  human  form : 
Lely  on  animated  canvas  stole 
The  sleepy  eye,  that  spoke  the  melting  soul. 
No  wonder  then,  when  all  was  love  and  sport, 
The  willing  Muses  were  debauch'd  at  court : 
On  each  enervate  string  they  taught  the  note 
To  pant,  or  tremble  thro'  an  eunuch's  throat. 

Unhappy  Dryden  !  —  In  all  Charles's  days, 
Eoscommon  only  boasts  unspotted  bays ; 
And  in  our  own  (excuse  some  courtly  stains) 
No  whiter  page  than  Addison  remains. 
He,  from  the  taste  obscene  reclaims  our  youth, 
And  sets  the  passions  on  the  side  of  Truth, 
Forms  the  soft  bosom  with  the  gentlest  art, 
And  pours  each  human  virtue  in  the  heart. 
Let  Ireland  tell,  how  wit  upheld  her  cause, 
Her  trade  supported,  and  supplied  her  laws; 
And  leave  on  SWIFT  this  grateful  verse  engrav'd: 
'The  rights  a  Court  attack'd,  a  Poet  sav'd.' 
Behold  a  hand  that  wrought  a  nation's  cure, 
Stretch'd  to  relieve  the  idiot  and  the  poor, 
Proud  vice  to  brand,  or  injur'd  worth  adorn, 
And  stretch  the  ray  to  ages  yet  unborn. 
Not  but  there  are,  who  merit  other  palms ; 
Hopkins  and  Sternhold  glad  the  heart  with  psalms 


FROM  THE  EPISTLE  TO  AUGUSTUS  221 

The  boys  and  girls  whom  charity  maintains, 
Implore  your  help  in  these  pathetic  strains : 
How  could  devotion  touch  the  country  pews, 
Unless  the  gods  bestow'd  a  proper  Muse? 
Verse  cheers  their  leisure,  verse  assists  their  work, 
Verse  prays  for  peace,  or  sings  down  Pope  and  Turk. 
The  silenc'd  preacher  yields  to  potent  strain, 
And  feels  that  grace  his  pray'r  besought  in  vain; 
The  blessing  thrills  thro'  all  the  lab'ring  throng, 
And  Heav'n  is  won  by  violence  of  song. 

We  conquer'd  France,  but  felt  our  captive's  charms ; 
Her  arts  victorious  triumph'd  o'er  our  arms ; 
Britain  to  soft  refinements  less  a  foe, 
Wit  grew  polite,  and  numbers  learn'd  to  flow. 
Waller  was  smooth;  but  Dry  den  taught  to  join 
The  varying  verse,  the  full-resounding  line, 
The  long  majestic  march,  and  energy  divine, 
Tho'  still  some  traces  of  our  rustic  vein 
And  splay-foot  verse,  remain'd,  and  will  remain. 
Late,  very  late,  correctness  grew  our  care, 
When  the  tir'd  nation  breath'd  from  civil  war. 
Exact  Racine,  and  Corneille's  noble  fire, 
Show'd  us  that  France  had  something  to  admire. 
Not  but  the  tragic  spirit  was  our  own, 
And  full  in  Shakespeare,  fair  in  Otway  shone : 
But  Otway  fail'd  to  polish  or  refine, 
And  fluent  Shakespeare  scarce  effac'd  a  line. 
Ev'n  copious  Dryden  wanted,  or  forgot, 
The  last  and  greatest  art,  the  art  to  blot. 
Some  doubt,  if  equal  pains,  or  equal  fire 
The  humbler  Muse  of  Comedy  require. 
But  in  known  images  of  life,  I  guess 
The  labour  greater,  as  th'  indulgence  less. 
Observe  how  seldom  ev'n  the  best  succeed : 
Tell  me  if  Congreve's  fools  are  fools  indeed? 
What  pert,  low  dialogue  has  Farquhar  writ! 


222  POPE 

How  Van  wants  grace,  who  never  wanted  wit ! 
The  stage  how  loosely  does  Astraea  tread, 
Who  fairly  puts  all  characters  to  bed! 
And  idle  Gibber,  how  he  breaks  the  laws, 
To  make  poor  Pinky  eat  with  vast  applause ! 
But  fill  their  purse,  our  poets'  work  is  done, 
Alike  to  them,  by  pathos  or  by  pun. 

0  you !  whom  Vanity's  light  bark  conveys 
On  Fame's  mad  voyage  by  the  wind  of  praise, 
With  what  a  shifting  gale  your  course  you  ply, 
For  ever  sunk  too  low,  or  borne  too  high ! 
Who  pants  for  glory  finds  but  short  repose, 
A  breath  revives  him,  or  a  breath  o'erthrows. 
Farewell  the  stage  !  if  just  as  thrives  the  play, 
The  silly  bard  grows  fat,  or  falls  away. 

There  still  remains,  to  mortify  a  wit, 
The  many-headed  monster  of  the  pit: 
A  senseless,  worthless,  and  unhonour'd  crowd; 
Who,  to  disturb  their  betters  mighty  proud, 
Clatt'ring  their  sticks  before  ten  lines  are  spoke, 
Call  for  the  farce,  the  bear,  or  the  black-joke. 
What  dear  delight  to  Britons  farce  affords ! 
Ever  the  taste  of  mobs,  but  now  of  lords ; 
(Taste,  that  eternal  wanderer,  which  flies 
From  heads  to  ears,  and  now  from  ears  to  eyes.) 
The  play  stands  still ;  damn  action  and  discourse, 
Back  fly  the  scenes,  and  enter  foot  arid  horse ; 
Pageants  on  pageants,  in  long  order  drawn, 
Peers,  heralds,  bishops,  ermine,  gold  and  lawn; 
The  champion  too !  and,  to  complete  the  jest, 
Old  Edward's  armour  beams  on  Gibber's  breast. 
With  laughter  sure  Democritus  had  died, 
Had  he  beheld  an  audience  gape  so  wide. 
Let  bear  or  elephant  be  e'er  so  white, 
The  people,  sure,  the  people  are  the  sight! 
Ah  luckless  poet !  stretch  thy  lungs  and  roar, 
That  bear  or  elephant  shall  heed  thee  more; 


FROM  THE   EPISTLE   TO  AUGUSTUS  223 

While  all  its  throats  the  gallery  extends, 

And  all  the  thunder  of  the  pit  ascends ! 

Loud  as  the  wolves,  on  Orcas'  stormy  steep, 

Howl  to  the  roarings  of  the  northern  deep, 

Such  is  the  shout,  the  long-applauding  note, 

At  Quin's  high  plume,  or  Oldfield's  petticoat; 

Or  when  from  court  a  birth-day  suit  bestow'd, 

Sinks  the  lost  actor  in  the  tawdry  load. 

Booth  enters  —  hark  !  the  universal  peal ! 

"But  has  he  spoken?"     Not  a  syllable. 

What  shook  the  stage,  and  made  the  people  stare? 

Cato's  long  wig,  flow'r'd  gown,  and  lacquer'd  chair. 

Yet  lest  you  think  I  rally  more  than  teach, 
Or  praise  malignly  arts  I  cannot  reach, 
Let  me  for  once  presume  t'  instruct  the  times, 
To  know  the  poet  from  the  man  of  rhymes : 
'  T  is  he,  who  gives  my  breast  a  thousand  pains, 
Can  make  me  feel  each  passion  that  he  feigns ; 
Enrage,  compose,  with  more  than  magic  art, 
With  pity,  and  with  terror,  tear  my  heart ; 
And  snatch  me,  o'er  the  earth,  or  thro'  the  air, 
To  Thebes,  to  Athens,  when  he  will,  and  where. 

But  not  this  part  of  the  poetic  state 
Alone,  deserves  the  favour  of  the  great; 
Think  of  those  authors,  sir,  who  would  rely 
More  on  a  reader's  sense,  than  gazer's  eye. 
Or  who  shall  wander  where  the  Muses  sing? 
Who  climb  their  mountain,  or  who  taste  their  spring? 
How  shall  we  fill  a  library  with  wit, 
When  Merlin's  cave  is  half  unfurnish'd  yet? 

My  Liege !  why  writers  little  claim  your  thought, 
I  guess ;  and,  with  their  leave,  will  tell  the  fault : 
We  poets  are  (upon  a  poet's  word) 
Of  all  mankind,  the  creatures  most  absurd : 
The  season,  when  to  come,  and  when  to  go, 
To  sing,  or  cease  to  sing,  we  never  know ; 
And  if  we  will  recite  nine  hours  in  ten, 


224  POPE 

You  lose  your  patience,  just  like  other  men. 
Then  too  we  hurt  ourselves,  when  to  defend 
A  single  verse,  we  quarrel  with  a  friend; 
Repeat  unask'd ;  lament,  the  wit 's  too  fine 
For  vulgar  eyes,  and  point  out  ev'ry  line. 
But  most,  when  straining  with  too  weak  a  wing, 
We  needs  will  write  Epistles  to  the  King; 
And  from  the  moment  we  oblige  the  town, 
Expect  a  place,  or  pension  from  the  crown ; 
Or  dubb'd  Historians,  by  express  command, 
T'  enroll  your  triumphs  o'er  the  seas  and  land, 
Be  call'd  to  court  to  plan  some  work  divine, 
As  once  for  Louis,  Boileau  and  Racine. 

Yet  think,  great  sir  !  (so  many  virtues  shown) 
Ah  think,  what  poet  best  may  make  them  known? 
Or  choose  at  least  some  minister  of  grace, 
Fit  to  bestow  the  Laureate's  weighty  place. 

Charles,  to  late  times  to  be  transmitted  fair, 
Assign'd  his  figure  to  Bernini's  care ; 
And  great  Nassau  to  Kneller's  hand  decreed 
To  fix  him  graceful  on  the  bounding  steed; 
So  well  in  paint  and  stone  they  judg'd  of  merit: 
But  kings  in  wit  may  want  discerning  spirit. 
The  hero  William,  and  the  martyr  Charles, 
One  knighted  Blackmore,  and  one  pension'd  Quarles; 
Which  made  old  Ben,  and  surly  Dennis  swear, 
"No  lord's  anointed,  but  a  Russian  bear." 

Not  with  such  majesty,  such  bold  relief, 
The  forms  august,  of  king,  or  conqu'ring  chief, 
E'er  swell'd  on  marble ;  as  in  verse  have  shin'd 
(In  polish'd  verse)  the  manners  and  the  mind. 
Oh !  could  I  mount  on  the  Maeonian  wing, 
Your  arms,  your  actions,  your  repose  to  sing  ! 
What  seas  you  travers'd,  and  what  fields  you  fought ! 
Your  country's  peace,  how  oft,  how  dearly  bought ! 
How  barb'rous  rage  subsided  at  your  word, 
And  nations  wonder'd  while  they  dropp'd  the  sword ! 


FROM  THE  EPISTLE  TO  AUGUSTUS  225 

How,  when  you  nodded,  o'er  the  land  and  deep, 

Peace  stole  her  wing,  and  wrapt  the  world  in  sleep ; 

Till  earth's  extremes  your  mediation  own, 

And  Asia's  tyrants  tremble  at  your  throne  — 

But  verse,  alas  !  your  majesty  disdains ; 

And  I  'm  not  us'd  to  panegyric  strains : 

Tie  zeal  of  fools  offends  at  any  time, 

But  most  of  all,  the  zeal  of  fools  in  rhyme. 

Besides,  a  fate  attends  on  all  I  write, 

That  when  I  aim  at  praise,  they  say  I  bite. 

A  vile  encomium  doubly  ridicules : 

There's  nothing  blackens  like  the  ink  of  fools. 

If  true,  a  woeful  likeness  ;  and  if  lies, 

"Praise  undeserv'd  is  scandal  in  disguise:" 

Well  may  he  blush,  who  gives  it,  or  receives; 

And  when  I  flatter,  let  my  dirty  leaves 

(Like  journals,  odes,  and  such  forgotten  things 

As  Eusden,  Philips,  Settle,  writ  of  kings) 

Clothe  spice,  line  trunks,  or,  flutt'ring  in  a  row, 

Befringe  the  rails  of  Bedlam  and  Soho. 


XXIII 

JOHNSON 

1.     FROM   THE  RAMBLER 

A.     THE   SEAMY   SIDE   OF   CRITICISM1 

But,  though,  it  should  happen  that  an  author  is  capable  of  excel- 
ling, yet  his  merit  may  pass  without  notice,  huddled  in  the  variety 
of  things,  and  thrown  into  the  general  miscellany  of  life.  He  that 
endeavours  after  fame  by  writing,  solicits  the  regard  of  a  multitude 
fluctuating  in  pleasures,  or  immersed  in  business,  without  time 
for  intellectual  amusements  ;  he  appeals  to  judges,  prepossessed  by 
passions,  or  corrupted  by  prejudices,  which  preclude  their  appro- 
bation of  any  new  performance.  Some  are  too  indolent  to  read 
any  thing,  till  its  reputation  is  established ;  others  too  envious  to 
promote  that  fame  which  gives  them  pain  by  its  increase.  What 
is  new  is  opposed,  because  most  are  unwilling  to  be  taught ;  and 
what  is  known  is  rejected,  because  it  is  not  sufficiently  considered, 
that  men  more  frequently  require  to  be  reminded  than  informed. 
The  learned  are  afraid  to  declare  their  opinion  early,  lest  they 
should  put  their  reputation  in  hazard ;  the  ignorant  always  imagine 
themselves  giving  some  proof  of  delicacy,  when  they  refuse  to  be 
pleased :  and  he  that  finds  his  way  to  reputation  through  all  these 
obstructions,  must  acknowledge  that  he  is  indebted  to  other  causes 
besides  his  industry,  his  learning,  or  his  wit. 

1  The  opening  numbers  of  The  Rambler  are  occupied  with  reflections  on 
literature,  and  the  chances  of  the  man  of  letters,  which  are  full  of  Johnson's 
melancholy  wisdom.  This  paragraph  (No.  2)  contains  the  root  and  essence 
of  the  more  florid  Allegory  of  Criticism  which  fills  No.  3. 

226 


FROM  THE  RAMBLER  227 


B.     SELECTIONS   FROM   CRITICISMS  ON   MILTON 

I.     HEROIC  VERSE  1 

The  heroic  measure  of  the  English  language  may  be  properly 
considered  as  pure  or  mixed.  It  is  pure  when  the  accent  rests 
upon  every  second  syllable  through  the  whole  line. 

Courage  uncertain  dangers  may  abate, 

But  wh6  can  bear  th'  apprdach  of  certain  fate?  —  DRYDBN. 

Here  Love  his  golden  shafts  employs,  here  lights 
His  cdnstant  lamp,  and  waves  his  purple  wmgs, 
Reigns  here,  and  revels ;  not  in  the  bought  smile 
Of  harlots,  l<5veless,  joyless,  unend^ared.  —  MILTON. 

The  accent  may  be  observed,  in  the  second  line  of  Dryden,  and  the 
second  and  fourth  of  Milton,  to  repose  upon  every  second  syllable. 

The  repetition  of  this  sound  or  percussion  at  equal  times,  is  the 
most  complete  harmony  of  which  a  single  verse  is  capable,  and 
should  therefore  be  exactly  kept  in  distichs,  and  generally  in  the 
last  line  of  a  paragraph,  that  the  ear  may  rest  without  any  sense 
of  imperfection. 

But,  to  preserve  the  series  of  sounds  untransposed  in  a  long  com- 
position, is  not  only  very  difficult,  but  tiresome  and  disgusting ;  for 
we  are  soon  wearied  with  the  perpetual  recurrence  of  the  same 
cadence.  Necessity  has  therefore  enforced  the  mixed  measure,  in 
which  some  variation  of  the  accents  is  allowed :  this,  though  it 
always  injures  the  harmony  of  the  line,  considered  by  itself,  yet 
compensates  the  loss  by  relieving  us  from  the  continual  tyranny 
of  the  same  sound,  and  makes  us  more  sensible  of  the  harmony  of 
the  pure  measure. 

Of  these  mixed  numbers  every  poet  affords  us  innumerable 
instances,  and  Milton  seldom  has  two  pure  lines  together,  as  will 
appear  if  any  of  his  paragraphs  be  read  with  attention  merely  to 
the  music. 

1  This  (No.  86)  has  been  inserted  to  show  the  effect  of  the  rigid  ten-syllable 
alternate-accent  view  of  English  verse,  on  the  criticism,  by  a  very  great  critic,  of 
all  but  the  greatest  artist  in  that  verse. 


228  JOHNSON 

Thus  at  their  shady  lodge  arrived,  both  stood, 

Both  turn'd,  and  under  open  sky  adored 

The  God  that  made  both  sky,  air,  earth,  and  heaven, 

Which  they  beheld;  the  moon's  resplendent  globe, 

And  starry  pole:  thou  also  mad'st  the  night, 

Maker  omnipotent !  and  thou  the  day, 

Which  we  in  our  appointed  work  employ'd 

Have  finish'd,  happy  in  our  mutual  help, 

And  mutual  love,  the  crown  of  all  our  bliss 

Ordain'd  by  thee ;  and  this  delicious  place, 

For  us  too  large;  where  thy  abundance  wants 

Partakers,  and  uncropp'd  falls  to  the  ground; 

But  thou  hast  promised  from  us  two  a  race 

To  fill  the  earth,  who  shall  with  us  extol 

Thy  goodness  infinite,  both  when  we  wake, 

And  when  we  seek,  as  now,  thy  gift  of  sleep. 

In  this  passage  it  will  be  at  first  observed  that  all  the  lines  are 
not  equally  harmonious,  arid  upon  a  nearer  examination  it  will  be 
found  that  only  the  fifth  and  ninth  lines  are  regular,  and  the  rest 
are  more  or  less  licentious  with  respect  to  the  accent.  In  some 
the  accent  is  equally  upon  two  syllables  together,  and  in  both 
strong.  As 

Thus  at  their  shady  lodge  arrived,  both  stood, 

Both  turned,  and  under  open  sky  adored 

The  God  that  made  both  sky,  air,  earth,  and  heaven. 

In  others  the  accent  is  equally  upon  two  syllables,  but  upon  both 

weak. 

A  race 

To  fill  the  earth,  who  shall  with  us  extol 
Thy  goodness  infinite,  both. when  we  wake, 
And  when  we  seek,  as  now,  thy  gift  of  sleep. 

In  the  first  pair  of  syllables  the  accent  may  deviate  from  the  rigour 
of  exactness,  without  any  unpleasing  diminution  of  harmony,  as 
may  be  observed  in  the  lines  already  cited,  and  more  remarkably 

in  this, 

Thou  also  mad'st  the  night, 

Maker  omnipotent !  and  thou  the  day. 

But,  excepting  in  the  first  pair  of  syllables,  which  may  be 
considered  as  arbitrary,  a  poet  who,  not  having  the  invention  or 


FROM  THE  RAMBLER  229 

knowledge  of  Milton,  has  more  need  to  allure  his  audience  by 
musical  cadences,  should  seldom  suffer  more  than  one  aberration 
from  the  rule  in  any  single  verse. 

There  are  two  lines  in  this   passage  more  remarkably  unhar- 

monious : 

This  delicious  place, 

For  us  too  large ;  where  thy  abundance  wants 
Partakers,  and  uncropp'd  falls  to  the  ground. 

Here  the  third  pair  of  syllables  in  the  first,  and  fourth  pair 
in  the  second  verse,  have  their  accents  retrograde  or  inverted  ; 
the  first  syllable  being  strong  or  acute,  and  the  second  weak. 
The  detriment  which  the  measure  suffers  by  this  inversion  of  the 
accents  is  sometimes  less  perceptible,  when  the  verses  are  carried 
one  into  another,  but  is  remarkably  striking  in  this  place,  where 
the  vicious  verse  concludes  a  period,  and  is  yet  more  offensive 
in  rhyme,  when  we  regularly  attend  to  the  flow  of  every  single 
line.  This  will  appear  by  reading  a  couplet  in  which  Cowley, 
an  author  not  sufficiently  studious  of  harmony,  has  committed 
the  same  fault. 

His  harmless  life 


Does  with  substantial  blessedness  abound, 
And  the  soft  wings  of  peace  cover  him  round. 

In  these  the  law  of  metre  is  very  grossly  violated  by  mingling 
combinations  of  sounds  directly  opposite  to  each  other,  as  Milton 
expresses  in  his  sonnet,  by  committing  short  and  long,  and  setting 
one  part  of  the  measure  at  variance  with  the  rest.  The  ancients, 
who  had  a  language  more  capable  of  variety  than  ours,  had  two 
kinds  of  verse,  the  Iambic,  consisting  of  short  and  long  syllables 
alternately,  from  which  our  heroic  measure  is  derived,  and  the 
Trochaic,  consisting  in  a  like  alternation  of  long  and  short.  These 
were  considered  as  opposites,  and  conveyed  the  contrary  images  of 
speed  and  slowness  ;  to  confound  them,  therefore,  as  in  these  lines, 
is  to  deviate  from  the  established  practice.  But  where  the  senses 
are  to  judge,  authority  is  not  necessary,  the  ear  is  sufficient  to 
detect  dissonance,  nor  should  I  have  sought  auxiliaries  on  such 
an  occasion  against  any  name  but  that  of  Milton. 


230  JOHNSON 

II.     "  ELISIONS  " 1 

The  great  peculiarity  of  Milton's  versification,  compared  with 
that  of  later  poets,  is  the  elision  of  one  vowel  before  another,  or 
the  suppression  of  the  last  syllable  of  a  word  ending  with  a  vowel, 
when  a  vowel  begins  the  following  word.  As 

—  Knowledge 


Oppresses  else  with  surfeit,  and  soon  turns 
Wisdom  to  folly,  as  nourishment  to  wind. 

This  licence,  though  now  disused  in  English  poetry,  was  prac- 
tised by  our  old  writers,  and  is  allowed  in  many  other  languages 
ancient  and  modern,  and  therefore  the  critics  on  Paradise  Lost 
have,  without  much  deliberation,  commended  Milton  for  continuing 
it.  But  one  language  cannot  communicate  its  rules  to  another. 
We  have  already  tried  and  rejected  the  hexameter  of  the  ancients, 
the  double  close  of  the  Italians,  and  the  Alexandrine  of  the  French ; 
and  the  elision  of  vowels,  however  graceful  it  may  seem  to  other 
nations,  may  be  very  unsuitable  to  the  genius  of  the  English  tongue. 

There  is  reason  to  believe  that  we  have  negligently  lost  part  of 
our  vowels,  and  that  the  silent  e,  which  our  ancestors  added  to  the 
most  of  our  monosyllables,  was  once  vocal.  By  this  detruncation 
of  our  syllables,  our  language  is  overstocked  with  consonants,  and  it 
is  more  necessary  to  add  vowels  to  the  beginning  of  words,  than  to 
cut  them  off  from  the  end. 

Milton  therefore  seems  to  have  somewhat  mistaken  the  nature  of 
our  language,  of  which  the  chief  defect  is  ruggedness  and  asperity, 
and  has  left  our  harsh  cadences  yet  harsher.  But  his  elisions  are 
not  all  equally  to  be  censured ;  in  some  syllables  they  may  .be  allowed, 
and  perhaps  in  a  few  may  be  safely  imitated.  The  abscission  of 
a  vowel  is  undoubtedly  vicious  when  it  is  strongly  sounded,  and 
makes,  with  its  associate  consonant,  a  full  and  audible  syllable. 

What  he  gives, 

Spiritual,  may  to  purest  spirits  be  found, 
No  ingrateful  food,  and  food  alike  these  pure 
Intelligential  substances  require. 

1  Another  (No.  88)  to  show  the  result  of  ignoring  or  refusing  trisyllabic  feet. 


FROM  THE   RAMBLER  231 

Fruits,  —  Hesperian  fables  true, 

If  true,  here  only,  and  of  delicious  taste. 

Evening  now  approach'd, 

For  we  have  also  our  evening  and  our  morn. 

—  Of  guests  he  makes  them  slaves, 
InhospitaWy,  and  kills  their  infant  males. 

And  vital  virtue  infused,  and  vital  warmth 
Throughout  the  fluid  mass. — 

God  made  thee  of  choice  his  own,  and  of  his  own 

To  serve  him. 

» 

I  believe  every  reader  will  agree,  that  in  all  those  passages, 
though  not  equally  in  all,  the  music  is  injured,  and  in  some  the 
meaning  obscured.  There  are  other  lines  in  which  the  vowel  is  cut 
off,  but  it  is  so  faintly  pronounced  in  common  speech,  that  the  loss 
of  it  in  poetry  is  scarcely  perceived ;  and  therefore  such  compliance 
with  the  measure  may  be  allowed. 

Nature  breeds 


Perverse,  all  monstrous,  all  prodigious  things, 
AbominaWe,  inuttera&te ;  and  worse 
Than  fables  yet  have  feign'd 


•  From  the  shore 


They  view'd  the  vast  immensura&te  abyss, 
Impenetrate,  impal'd  with  circling  fire. 

To  none  communicable  in  earth  or  heaven. 

Yet  even  these  contractions  increase  the  roughness  of  a  language 
too  rough  already ;  and  though  in  long  poems  they  may  be  some- 
times suffered,  it  never  can  be  faulty  to  forbear  them. 

Milton  frequently  uses  in  his  poems  the  hypermetrical  or  redund- 
ant line  of  eleven  syllables. 

Thus  it  shall  befal 


Him  who  to  worth  in  woman  over-trusting 
Lets  her  will  rule.  — 

I  also  err'd  in  over-much  admiring. 

Verses  of  this  kind  occur  almost  in  every  page  ;  but,  though  they 
are  not  unpleasing  or  dissonant,  they  ought  not  to  be  admitted  into 


232  JOHNSON 

heroic  poetry,  since  the  narrow  limits  of  our  language  allow  us  no 
other  distinction  of  epic  and  tragic  measures,  than  is  afforded  by  the 
liberty  of  changing  at  will  the  terminations  of  the  dramatic  lines, 
and  bringing  them  by  that  relaxation  of  metrical  rigour  nearer 
to  prose. 

III.     MILTON'S  PAUSES  1 

It  is  very  difficult  to  write  on  the  minuter  parts  of  literature 
without  failing  either  to  please  or  instruct.  Too  much  nicety  of 
detail  disgusts  the  greatest  part  of  readers,  and  to  throw  a  multi- 
tude of  particulars  under  general  heads,  and  lay  down  rules  of 
extensive  comprehension,  is  to  common  understandings  of  little 
use.  They  who  undertake  these  subjects  are  therefore  always  in 
danger,  as  one  or  other  inconvenience  arises  to  their  imagination,  of 
frighting  us  with  rugged  science,  or  amusing  us  with  empty  sound. 

In  criticising  the  work  of  Milton,  there  is,  indeed,  opportunity 
to  intersperse  passages  that  can  hardly  fail  to  relieve  the  languors 
of  attention  ;  and  since,  in  examining  the  variety  and  choice  of  the 
pauses  with  which  he  has  diversified  his  numbers,  it  will  be  necess- 
ary to  exhibit  the  lines  in  which  they  are  to  be  found,  perhaps  the 
remarks  may  be  well  compensated  by  the  examples,  and  the  irk- 
someness  of  grammatical  disquisitions  somewhat  alleviated.  Milton 
formed  his  scheme  of  versification  by  the  poets  of  Greece  and  Rome, 
whom  he  proposed  to  himself  for  his  models,  so  far  as  the  dif- 
ference of  his  language  from  theirs  would  permit  the  imitation. 
There  are  indeed  many  inconveniences  inseparable  from  our  heroic 
measure  compared  with  that  of  Homer  and  Virgil ;  inconveniences, 
which  it  is  no  reproach  to  Milton  not  to  have  overcome,  because 
they  are  in  their  own  nature  insuperable ;  but  against  which  he  has 
struggled  with  so  much  art  and  diligence,  that  he  may  at  least  be 
said  to  have  deserved  success. 

The  hexameter  of  the  ancients  may  be  considered  as  consisting 
of  fifteen  syllables,  so  melodiously  disposed,  that,  as  every  one 
knows  who  has  examined  the  poetical  authors,  very  pleasing  and 

1  There  is  of  course  nothing  for  it  save  De  Gustibus  here  (No.  90).  To  us 
"Pure;"  and  "Her  son."  are  resplendent  beauties.  But  it  can  be  at  least 
urged  that  Johnson's  theory  made  them  defects, 


FROM  THE  RAMBLER  233 

sonorous  lyric  measures  are  formed  from  the  fragments  of  the 
heroic.  It  is,  indeed,  scarce  possible  to  break  them  in  such  a 
manner,  but  that  invenias  etiam  disjecta  membra  poetce,  some  har- 
mony will  still  remain,  and  the  due  proportions  of  sound  will  always 
be  discovered.  This  measure  therefore  allowed  great  variety  of 
pauses,  and  great  liberties  of  connecting  one  verse  with  another, 
because  wherever  the  line  was  interrupted,  either  part  singly  was 
musical.  But  the  ancients  seemed  to  have  confined  this  privilege 
to  hexameters ;  for  in  their  other  measures,  though  longer  than  the 
English  heroic,  those  who  wrote  after  the  refinements  of  versifica- 
tion, venture  so  seldom  to  change  their  pauses,  that  every  variation 
may  be  supposed  rather  a  compliance  with  necessity  than  the  choice 
of  judgment. 

Milton  was  constrained  within  the  narrow  limits  of  a  measure 
not  very  harmonious  in  the  utmost  perfection;  the  single  parts, 
therefore,  into  which  it  was  to  be  sometimes  broken  by  pauses, 
were  in  danger  of  losing  the  very  form  of  verse.  This  has,  perhaps, 
notwithstanding  all  his  care,  sometimes  happened. 

As  harmony  is  the  end  of  poetical  measures,  no  part  of  a  verse 
ought  to  be  so  separated  from  the  rest  as  not  to  remain  still  more 
harmonious  than  prose,  or  to  show,  by  the  disposition  of  the  tones, 
that  it  is  part  of  a  verse.  This  rule  in  the  old  hexameter  might  be 
easily  observed,  but  in  English  will  very  frequently  be  in  danger 
of  violation  ;  for  the  order  and  regularity  of  accents  cannot  well  be 
perceived  in  a  succession  of  fewer  than  three  syllables,  which  will 
confine  the  English  poet  to  only  five  pauses;  it  being  supposed, 
that  when  he  connects  one  line  with  another,  he  should  never  make 
a  full  pause  at  less  distance  than  that  of  three  syllables  from  the 
beginning  or  end  of  a  verse. 

That  this  rule  should  be  universally  and  indispensably  esta- 
blished, perhaps  cannot  be  granted ;  something  may  be  allowed  to 
variety,  and  something  to  the  adaptation  of  the  numbers  to  the 
subject ;  but  it  will  be  found  generally  necessary,  and  the  ear  will 
seldom  fail  to  suffer  by  its  neglect. 

Thus  when  a  single  syllable  is  cut  off  from  the  rest,  it  must 
either  be  united  to  the  line  with  which  the  sense  connects  it,  or  be 
sounded  alone.  If  it  be  united  to  the  other  line,  it  corrupts  its 


234  JOHNSON 

harmony;  if  disjoined,  it  must  stand  alone,  and  with  regard  to 
music  be  superfluous ;  for  there  is  no  harmony  in  a  single  sound, 
because  it  has  no  proportion  to  another. 

Hypocrites  austerely  talk, 

Defaming  as  impure  what  God  declares 

Pure;  and  commands  to  some,  leaves  free  to  all. 

When  two  syllables  likewise  are  abscinded  from  the  rest,  they 
evidently  want  some  associate  sounds  to  make  them  harmonious. 

Eyes 


more  wakeful  than  to  drowse, 

Charm'd  with  Arcadian  pipe,  the  past'ral  reed 
Of  Hermes,  or  his  opiate  rod.     Meanwhile 
To  re-salute  the  world  with  sacred  light 
Leucothea  waked. 

He  ended,  and  the  Son  gave  signal  high 
To  the  bright  minister  that  watch'd :  he  blew 
His  trumpet. 

First  in  the  east  his  glorious  lamp  was  seen, 
Regent  of  day;  and  all  th'  horizon  round 
Invested  with  bright  rays,  jocund  to  run 
His  longitude  through  heaven's  high  road ;  the  grey 
Dawn,  and  the  Pleiades,  before  him  danced, 
Shedding  sweet  influence. 

The  same  defect  is  perceived  in  the  following  line,  where  the 
pause  is  at  the  second  syllable  from  the  beginning. 

The  race 


Of  that  wild  rout  that  tore  the  Thracian  bard 
In  Rhodope  where  woods  and  rocks  had  ears 
To  rapture,  till  the  savage  clamour  drown'd 
Both  harp  and  voice ;  nor  could  the  Muse  defend 
Her  son.     So  fail  not  thou,  who  thee  implores. 

When  the  pause  falls  upon  the  third  syllable  or  the  seventh,  the 
harmony  is  better  preserved;  but  as  the  third  and  seventh  are 
weak  syllables,  the  period  leaves  the  ear  unsatisfied,  and  in  expect- 
ation of  the  remaining  part  of  the  verse. 

He,  with  his  horrid  crew, 


Lay  vanquish'd,  rolling  in  the  fiery  gulf, 


FROM   THE   RAMBLER  235 

Confounded  though  irmnortaZ.     But  his  doom 
Reserved  him  to  more  wrath ;  for  now  the  thought 
Both  of  lost  happiness  and  lasting  pain 
Torments  him. 

God,  —  with  frequent  intercourse, 
Thither  will  send  his  winged  messengers 
On  errands  of  supernal  grace.     So  sung 
The  glorious  train  ascending. 

It  may  be,  I  think,  established  as  a  rule,  that  a  pause  which 
concludes  a  period  should  be  made  for  the  most  part  upon  a  strong 
syllable,  as  the  fourth  and  sixth ;  but  those  pauses  which  only  sus- 
pend the  sense  may  be  placed  upon  the  weaker.  Thus  the  rest  in 
the  third  line  of  the  first  passage  satisfies  the  ear  better  than  in  the 
fourth,  and  the  close  of  the  second  quotation  better  than  that  of 

the  third. 

—  The  evil  soon 

Drawn  back,  redounded  (as  a  flood)  on  those 
From  whom  it  sprung;  impossible  to  mix 
With  blessedness. 

—  What  we  by  day 

Lop  overgrown,  or  prune,  or  prop,  or  bind, 
One  night  or  two  with  wanton  growth  derides, 
Tending  to  wild. 

The  paths  and  bowers  doubt  not  but  our  joint  hands 
Will  keep  from  wilderness  with  ease  as  wide 
As  we  need  walk,  till  younger  hands  ere  long 
Assist  MS. 

The  rest  in  the  fifth  place  has  the  same  inconvenience  as  in  the 
seventh  and  third,  that  the  syllable  is  weak. 

Beast  now  with  beast  'gan  war,  and  fowl  with  fowl, 
And  fish  with  fish,  to  graze  the  herb  all  leaving, 
Devour'd  each  other;  Nor  stood  much  in  awe 
Of  man,  but  fled  him,  or  with  countenance  grim, 
Glared  on  him  passing. 

The  noblest  and  most  majestic  pauses  which  our  versification 
admits,  are  upon  the  fourth  and  sixth  syllables,  which  are  both 


236  JOHNSON 

strongly  sounded  in  a  pure  and  regular  verse,  and  at  either  of 
which  the  line  is  so  divided,  that  both  members  participate  of 
harmony. 

But  now  at  last  the  sacred  influence 

Of  light  appears,  and  from  the  walls  of  heaven 

Shoots  far  into  the  bosom  of  dim  night 

A  glimmering  dawn:  here  Nature  first  begins 

Her  farthest  verge,  and  chaos  to  retire. 

But  far  above  all  others,  if  I  can  give  any  credit  to  my  own  ear, 
is  the  rest  upon  the  sixth  syllable,  which,  taking  in  a  complete 
compass  of  sound,  such  as  is  sufficient  to  constitute  one  of  our  lyric 
measures,  makes  a  full  and  solemn  close.  Some  passages  which 
conclude  at  this  stop,  I  could  never  read  without  some  strong 
emotions  of  delight  or  admiration. 

Before  the  hills  appear'd,  or  fountain  flow'd, 
Thou  with  the  eternal  wisdom  didst  converse, 
Wisdom  thy  sister,  and  with  her  didst  play 
In  presence  of  the  almighty  Father,  pleased 
With  thy  celestial  song. 

Or  other  worlds  they  seem'd,  or  happy  isles, 
Like  those  Hesperian  gardens  famed  of  old, 
Fortunate  fields,  and  groves,  and  flowery  vales, 
Thrice  happy  isles  !    But  who  dwelt  happy  there, 
He  stay'd  not  to  inquire. 

He  blew 


His  trumpet,  heard  in  Oreb  since,  perhaps, 
When  God  descended ;  and,  perhaps,  once  more 
To  sound  at  general  doom. 

If  the  poetry  of  Milton  be  examined,  with  regard  to  the  pauses 
and  flow  of  his  verses  into  each  other,  it  will  appear  that  he  has 
performed  all  that  our  language  would  admit ;  and  the  comparison 
of  his  numbers  with  those  who  have  cultivated  the  same  manner 
of  writing,  will  show  that  he  excelled  as  much  in  the  lower  as  the 
higher  parts  of  his  art,  and  that  his  skill  in  harmony  was  not  less 
than  his  invention  or  his  learning. 


FROM  THE   RAMBLER  237 


IV.     THE  RESPONSIBILITIES  OF  THE  CRITIC  1 

There  are  few  books  on  which  more  time  is  spent  by  young 
students,  than  on  treatises  which  deliver  the  characters  of  authors ; 
nor  any  which  oftener  deceive  the  expectation  of  the  reader,  or  fill 
his  mind  with  more  opinions  which  the  progress  of  his  studies  and 
the  increase  of  his  knowledge  oblige  him  to  resign. 

Baillet  ,has  introduced  his  collection  of  the  decisions  of  the 
learned,  by  an  enumeration  of  the  prejudices  which  mislead  the 
critic,  and  raise  the  passions  in  rebellion  against  the  judgment.  His 
catalogue,  though  large,  is  imperfect ;  and  who  can  hope  to  com- 
plete it  ?  The  beauties  of  writing  have  been  observed  to  be  often 
such  as  cannot  in  the  present  state  of  human  knowledge  be  evinced 
by  evidence,  or  drawn  out  into  demonstrations ;  they  are  therefore 
wholly  subject  to  the  imagination,  and  do  not  force  their  effects 
upon  a  mind  preoccupied  by  unfavourable  sentiments,  nor  overcome 
the  counteraction  of  a  false  principle  or  of  stubborn  partiality. 

To  convince  any  man  against  his  will  is  hard,  but  to  please  him 
against  his  will  is  justly  pronounced  by  Dryden  to  be  above  the 
reach  of  human  abilities.  Interest  and  passion  will  hold  out  long 
against  the  closest  siege  of  diagrams  and  syllogisms,  but  they  are 
absolutely  impregnable  to  imagery  and  sentiment ;  and  will  for 
ever  bid  defiance  to  the  most  powerful  strains  of  Virgil  or  Homer, 
though  they  may  give  way  in  time  to  the  batteries  of  Euclid  or 
Archimedes. 

In  trusting  therefore  to  the  sentence  of  a  critic,  we  are  in  dan- 
ger not  only  from  that  vanity  which  exalts  writers  too  often  to 
the  dignity  of  teaching  what  they  are  yet  to  learn,  from  that  neg- 
ligence which  sometimes  steals  upon  the  most  vigilant  caution,  and 
that  fallibility  to  which  the  condition  of  nature  has  subjected  every 
human  understanding ;  but  from  a  thousand  extrinsic  and  accidental 

1  This  admirable  essay  (No.  93),  which  is  a  sort  of  extension  and  commentary 
of  the  paragraph  given  above  (as  A),  is  not  openly  connected  with  the  Miltonic 
strictures.  But  it  immediately  precedes  the  last  of  them,  and  is  apparently  a 
sort  of  indirect  apologia  therefor.  The  concluding  paper  itself  is  an  excellently 
sensible  one  — on  the  then  fashionable  doctrine  of  suiting  the  sound  to  the  sense, 
as  illustrated  (or  thought  to  be  illustrated)  in  Paradise  Lost. 


238  JOHNSON 

causes,  from  every  thing  which  can  excite  kindness  or  malevolence, 
veneration  or  contempt. 

Many  of  those  who  have  determined  with  great  boldness  upon 
the  various  degrees  of  literary  merit,  may  be  justly  suspected  of 
having  passed  sentence,  as  Seneca  remarks  of  Claudius, 

Una  tantum  parte  audita, 
Ssepe  et  nulla, 

without  much  knowledge  of  the  cause  before  them :  for  it  will  not 
easily  be  imagined  of  Langbaine,  Borrichius,  or  Rapin,  that  they  had 
very  accurately  perused  all  the  books  which  they  praise  or  censure ; 
or  that,  even  if  nature  and  learning  had  qualified  them  for  judges, 
they  could  read  for  ever  with  the  attention  necessary  to  just  critic- 
ism. Such  performances,  however,  are  not  wholly  without  their 
use ;  for  they  are  commonly  just  echoes  to  the  voice  of  fame, 
and  transmit  the.  general  suffrage  of  mankind  when  they  have  no 
particular  motives  to  suppress  it. 

Critics,  like  the  rest  of  mankind,  are  very  frequently  misled  by 
interest.  The  bigotry  with  which  editors  regard  the  authors  whom 
they  illustrate  or  correct,  has  been  generally  remarked.  Dryden  was 
known  to  have  written  most  of  his  critical  dissertations  only  to  rec- 
ommend the  work  upon  which  he  then  happened  to  be  employed :  and 
Addison  is  suspected  to  have  denied  the  expediency  of  poetical  justice, 
because  his  own  Cato  was  condemned  to  perish  in  a  good  cause. 

There  are  prejudices  which  authors,  not  otherwise  weak  or  cor- 
rupt, have  indulged  without  scruple ;  and  perhaps  some  of  them 
are  so  complicated  with  our  natural  affections,  that  they  cannot 
easily  be  disentangled  from  the  heart.  Scarce  any  can  hear  with 
impartiality  a  comparison  between  the  writers  of  his  own  and 
another  country :  and  though  it  cannot,  I  think,  be  charged  equally 
on  all  nations,  that  they  are  blinded  with  this  literary  patriotism, 
yet  there  are  none  that  do  not  look  upon  their  authors  with  the 
fondness  of  affinity,  and  esteem  them  as  well  for  the  place  of  their 
birth,  as  for  their  knowledge  or  their  wit.  There  is,  therefore, 
seldom  much  respect  due  to  comparative  criticism,  when  the  com- 
petitors are  of  different  countries,  unless  the  judge  is  of  a  nation 
equally  indifferent  to  both.  The  Italians  could  not  for  a  long  time 
believe,  that  there  was  any  learning  beyond  the  mountains ;  and 


FROM  THE   RAMBLER  239 

the  French  seem  generally  persuaded,  that  there  are  no  wits  or 
reasoners  equal  to  their  own.  I  can  scarcely  conceive  that  if 
Scaliger  had  not  considered  himself  as  allied  to  Virgil,  by  being 
born  in  the  same  country,  he  would  have  found  his  works  so  much 
superior  to  those  of  Homer,  or  have  thought  the  controversy  worthy 
of  so  much  zeal,  vehemence,  and  acrimony. 

There  is,  indeed,  one  prejudice,  and  only  one,  by  which  it  may 
be  doubted  whether  it  is  any  dishonour  to  be  sometimes  misguided. 
Criticism  has  so  often  given  occasion  to  the  envious  and  ill-natured, 
of  gratifying  their  malignity,  that  some  have  thought  it  necessary 
to  recommend  the  virtue  of  candour  without  restriction,  and  to 
preclude  all  future  liberty  of  censure.  Writers  possessed  with  this 
opinion  are  continually  enforcing  civility  and  decency,  recommend- 
ing to  critics  the  proper  diffidence  of  themselves,  and  inculcating 
the  veneration  due  to  celebrated  names. 

I  am  not  of  opinion  that  these  professed  enemies  of  arrogance 
and  severity  have  much  more  benevolence  or  modesty  than  the  rest 
of  mankind ;  or  that  they  feel  in  their  own  hearts,  any  other  inten- 
tion than  to  distinguish  themselves  by  their  softness  and  delicacy. 
Some  are  modest  because  they  are  timorous,  and  some  are  lavish  of 
praise  because  they  hope  to  be  repaid. 

There  is,  indeed,  some  tenderness  due  to  living  writers,  when 
they  attack  none  of  those  truths  which  are  of  importance  to  the 
happiness  of  mankind,  and  have  committed  no  other  offence  than 
that  of  betraying  their  own  ignorance  or  dulness.  I  should  think 
it  cruelty  to  crush  an  insect  who  had  provoked  me  only  by  buzzing 
in  my  ear ;  and  would  not  willingly  interrupt  the  dream  of  harm- 
less stupidity,  or  destroy  the  jest  which  makes  its  author  laugh. 
Yet  I  am  far  from  thinking  this  tenderness  universally  necessary,  for 
he  that  writes  may  be  considered  as  a  kind  of  general  challenger, 
whom  every  one  has  a  right  to  attack ;  since  he  quits  the  common 
rank  of  life,  steps  forward  beyond  the  lists,  and  offers  his  merit  to 
the  public  judgment.  To  commence  author  is  to  claim  praise,  and 
no  man  can  justly  aspire  to  honour,  but  at  the  hazard  of  disgrace. 

But,  whatever  be  decided  concerning  contemporaries,  whom  he 
that  knows  the  treachery  of  the  human  heart,  and  considers  how 
often  we  gratify  our  own  pride  or  envy,  under  the  appearance  of 


240  JOHNSON 

contending  for  elegance  and  propriety,  will  find  himself  not  much 
inclined  to  disturb ;  there  can  surely  be  no  exemptions  pleaded  to 
secure  them  from  criticism,  who  can  no  longer  suffer  by  reproach, 
and  of  whom  nothing  now  remains  but  their  writings  and  their 
names.  Upon  these  authors  the  critic  is  undoubtedly  at  full  liberty 
to  exercise  the  strictest  severity,  since  he  endangers  only  his  own 
fame ;  and,  like  ^Eneas,  when  he  drew  his  sword  in  the  infernal 
regions,  encounters  phantoms  which  cannot  be  wounded.  He  may, 
indeed,  pay  some  regard  to  established  reputation;  but  he  can  by 
that  show  of  reverence  consult  only  his  own  security,  for  all  other 
motives  are  now  at  an  end. 

The  faults  of  a  writer  of  acknowledged  excellence  are  more 
dangerous,  because  the  influence  of  his  example  is  more  extensive ; 
and  the  interest  of  learning  requires  that  they  should  be  discovered 
and  stigmatized,  before  they  have  the  sanction  of  antiquity  conferred 
upon  them,  and  become  precedents  of  indisputable  authority. 

It  has,  indeed,  been  advanced  by  Addison,  as  one  of  the  charac- 
teristics of  a  true  critic,  that  he  points  out  beauties  rather  than 
faults.  But  it  is  rather  natural  to  a  man  of  learning  and  genius  to 
apply  himself  chiefly  to  the  study  of  writers  who  have  more  beauties 
than  faults  to  be  displayed :  for  the  duty  of  criticism  is  neither  to 
depreciate,  nor  dignify  by  partial  representations,  but  to  hold  out 
the  light  of  reason,  whatever  it  may  discover ;  and  to  promulgate 
the  determinations  of  truth,  whatever  she  shall  dictate. 

C.     CRITICISM   OF   SPENSER1 

To  imitate  the  fictions  and  sentiments  of  Spenser  can  incur  no 
reproach,  for  allegory  is  perhaps  one  of  the  most  pleasing  vehicles 
of  instruction.  But  I  am  very  far  from  extending  the  same  respect 
to  his  diction  and  his  stanza.  His  style  was  in  his  own  time  allowed 
to  be  vicious,  so  darkened  with  old  words  and  peculiarities  of  phrase, 

1  Johnson  was  no  doubt  thinking  chiefly  of  Shenstone,  Thomson,  and  West 
in  the  reference  to  "some  men  of  learning  and  genius"  which  introduces 
this  criticism  (No.  121).  It  is,  of  course,  a  very  unfortunate  one  —  very  much 
below  the  censures  of  Milton,  which  have  preceded  it,  and  more  like  those  in 
the  later  "  Life  "  of  that  poet.  But  its  very  misfortunes  are  documents. 


FROM  THE  RAMBLER  241 

and  so  remote  from  common  use,  that  Jonson  boldly  pronounces 
him  to  have  written  no  language.  His  stanza  is  at  once  difficult 
and  unpleasing ;  tiresome  to  the  ear  by  its  uniformity,  and  to  the 
attention  by  its  length.  It  was  at  first  formed  in  imitation  of  the 
Italian  poets,  without  due  regard  to  the  genius  of  our  language. 
The  Italians  have  little  variety  of  termination,  and  were  forced  to 
contrive  such  a  stanza  as  might  admit  the  greatest  number  of 
similar  rhymes ;  but  our  words  end  with  so  much  diversity,  that  it 
is  seldom  convenient  for  us  to  bring  more  than  two  of  the  same 
sound  together.  If  it  be  justly  observed  by  Milton,  that  rhyme 
obliges  poets  to  express  their  thoughts  in  improper  terms,  these 
improprieties  must  always  be  multiplied,  as  the  difficulty  of  rhyme 
is  increased  by  long  concatenations. 

The  imitators  of  Spenser  are  indeed  not  very  rigid  censors  of 
themselves,  for  they  seem  to  conclude  that,  when  they  have  dis- 
figured their  lines  with  a  few  obsolete  syllables,  they  have  accom- 
plished their  design,  without  considering  that  they  ought  not  only 
to  admit  old  words,  but  to  avoid  new.  The  laws  of  imitation  are 
broken  by  every  word  introduced  since  the  time  of  Spenser,  as  the 
character  of  Hector  is  violated  by  quoting  Aristotle  in  the  play. 
It  would  indeed  be  difficult  to  exclude  from  a  long  poem  all  modern 
phrase,  though  it  is  easy  to  sprinkle  it  with  gleanings  of  antiquity. 
Perhaps,  however,  the  style  of  Spenser  might  by  long  labour  be, 
justly  copied ;  but  life  is  surely  given  us  for  higher  purposes  than 
to  gather  what  our  ancestors  have  wisely  thrown  away,  and  to  learn 
what  is  of  no  value,  but  because  it  has  been  forgotten. 

D.     OF   TRAGICOMEDY  AND  "JUDGING   BY   THE    EVENT "i 

Criticism  has  sometimes  permitted  fancy  to  dictate  the  laws  by 
which  fancy  ought  to  be  restrained,  and  fallacy  to  perplex  the 

1  No  passage,  perhaps,  in  Johnson  serves  to  show  his  critical  greatness  better 
than  this  (No.  156) ;  nor  does  any,  in  him  or  another,  better  show  that  associa- 
tion of  contradictories  which  often  does  (and  perhaps  should)  mark  great  criti- 
cism. In  the  first  few  paragraphs,  and  partly  in  the  last,  he  is  very  nearly 
Samson  to  the  temple  of  the  Classical  Philistia :  in  the  others  he  puts  the  pillars 
back  again,  and  Gaza  escapes — for  the  time. 


242  JOHNSON 

principles  by  which  fallacy  is  to  be  detected ;  her  superintendence 
of  others  has  betrayed  her  to  negligence  of  herself ;  and,  like  the 
ancient  Scythians,  by  extending  her  conquests  over  distant  regions, 
she  has  left  her  throne  vacant  to  her  slaves. 

Among  the  laws  of  which  the  desire  of  extending  authority,  or 
ardour  of  promoting  knowledge,  has  prompted  the  prescription,  all 
which  writers  have  received,  had  not  the  same  original  right  to  our 
regard.  Some  are  to  be  considered  as  fundamental  and  indispens- 
able, others  only  as  useful  and  convenient;  some  as  dictated  by 
reason  and  necessity,  others  as  enacted  by  despotic  antiquity  ;  some 
as  invincibly  supported  by  their  conformity  to  the  order  of  nature 
and  operations  of  the  intellect ;  others  as  formed  by  accident,  or 
instituted  by  example,  and  therefore  always  liable  to  dispute  and 
alteration. 

That  many  rules  have  been  advanced  without  consulting  nature 
or  reason,  we  cannot  but  suspect,  when  we  find  it  peremptorily 
decreed  by  the  ancient  masters,  that  only  three  speaking  personages 
should  appear  at  once  upon  the  stage;  a  law  which,  as  the  variety 
and  intricacy  of  modern  plays  has  made  it  impossible  to  be  observed, 
we  now  violate  without  scruple,  and,  as  experience  proves,  without 
inconvenience. 

The  original  of  this  precept  was  merely  accidental.  Tragedy 
was  a  monody,  or  solitary  song  in  honour  of  Bacchus,  improved 
afterwards  into  a  dialogue  by  the  addition  of  another  speaker :  but 
the  ancients,  remembering  that  the  tragedy  was  at  first  pronounced 
only  by  one,  durst  not  for  some  time  venture  beyond  two :  at  last, 
when  custom  and  impunity  had  made  them  daring,  they  extended 
their  liberty  to  the  admission  of  three,  but  restrained  themselves 
by  a  critical  edict  from  further  exorbitance. 

By  what  accident  the  number  of  acts  was  limited  to  five,  I  know 
not  that  any  author  has  informed  us  ;  but  certainly  it  is  not  deter- 
mined by  any  necessity  arising  either  from  the  nature  of  action 
or  propriety  of  exhibition.  An  act  is  only  the  representation  of 
such  a  part  of  the  business  of  a  play  as  proceeds  in  an  unbroken 
tenor,  or  without  any  intermediate  pause.  Nothing  is  more  evident 
than  that  of  every  real,  and  by  consequence  of  every  dramatic 
action,  the  intervals  may  be  more  or  fewer  than  five ;  and  indeed 


FROM  THE   RAMBLER  243 

the  rule  is  upon  the  English  stage  every  day  broken  in  effect,  with- 
out any  other  mischief  than  that  which  arises  from  an  absurd 
endeavour  to  observe  it  in  appearance.  Whenever  the  scene  is 
shifted  the  act  ceases,  since  some  time  is  necessarily  supposed  to 
elapse  while  the  personages  of  the  drama  change  their  place. 

With  no  greater  right  to  our  obedience  have  the  critics  confined 
the  dramatic  action  to  a  certain  number  of  hours.  Probability 
requires  that  the  time  of  action  should  approach  somewhat  nearly 
to  that  of  exhibition,  and  those  plays  will  always  be  thought  most 
happily  conducted  which  crowd  the  greatest  variety  into  the  least 
space.  But  since  it  will  frequently  happen  that  some  delusion 
must  be  admitted,  I  know  not  where  the  limits  of  imagination 
can  be  fixed.  It  is  rarely  observed  that  minds,  not  prepossessed 
by  mechanical  criticism,  feel  any  offence  from  the  extension  of 
the  intervals  between  the  acts ;  nor  can  I  conceive  it  absurd  or 
impossible,  that  he  who  can  multiply  three  hours  into  twelve  or 
twenty-four,  might  image  with  equal  ease  a  greater  number. 

I  know  not  whether  he  that  professes  to  regard  no  other  laws 
than  those  of  nature,  will  not  be  inclined  to  receive  tragicomedy 
to  his  protection,  whom,  however  generally  condemned,  her  own 
laurels  have  hitherto  shaded  from  the  fulminations  of  criticism. 
For  what  is  there  in  the  mingled  drama  which  impartial  reason 
can  condemn  ?  The  connection  of  important  with  trivial  incidents, 
since  it  is  not  only  common  but  perpetual  in  the  world,  may 
surely  be  allowed  upon  the  stage,  which  pretends  only  to  be  the 
mirror  of  life.  The  impropriety  of  suppressing  passions  before  we 
have  raised  them  to  the  intended  agitation,  and  of  diverting  the 
expectation  from  an  event  which  we  keep  suspended  only  to  raise  it, 
may  be  speciously  urged.  But  will  not  experience  show  this  objec- 
tion to  be  rather  subtile  than  just?  Is  it  not  certain  that  the 
tragic  and  comic  affections  have  been  moved  alternately  with  equal 
force  ;  and  that  no  plays  have  oftener  filled  the  eye  with  tears,  and 
the  breast  with  palpitation,  than  those  which  are  variegated  with 
interludes  of  mirth  ? 

I  do  not  however  think  it  safe  to  judge  of  works  of  genius  merely 
by  the  event.  The  resistless  vicissitudes  of  the  heart,  this  alter- 
nate prevalence  of  merriment  and  solemnity,  may  sometimes  be 


244  JOHNSON 

more  properly  ascribed  to  the  vigour  of  the  writer  than  the  just- 
ness of  the  design :  and,  instead  of  vindicating  tragicomedy  by  the 
success,  of  Shakespeare,  we  ought,  perhaps,  to  pay  new  honours  to 
that  transcendent  and  unbounded  genius  that  could  preside  over 
the  passions  in  sport ;  who,  to  actuate  the  affections,  needed  not  the 
slow  gradation  of  common  means,  but  could  fill  the  heart  with 
instantaneous  jollity  or  sorrow,  and  vary  our  disposition  as  he 
changed  his  scenes.  Perhaps  the  effects  even  of  Shakespeare's 
poetry  might  have  been  yet  greater,  had  he  not  counteracted  him- 
self ;  and  we  might  have  been  more  interested  in  the  distresses  of 
his  heroes,  had  we  not  been  so  frequently  diverted  by  the  jokes  of 
his  buffoons. 

There  are  other  rules  more  fixed  and  obligatory.  It  is  necessary 
that  of  every  play  the  chief  action  should  be  single ;  for,  since  a 
play  represents  some  transaction  through  its  regular  maturation 
to  its  final  event,  two  actions  equally  important  must  evidently 
constitute  two  plays. 

As  the  design  of  tragedy  is  to  instruct  by  moving  the  passions, 
it  must  always  have  a  hero,  a  personage  apparently  and  incontest- 
ably  superior  to  the  rest,  upon  whom  the  attention  may  be  fixed, 
and  the  anxiety  suspended.  For  though,  of  two  persons  opposing 
each  other  with  equal  abilities  and  equal  virtue,  the  auditor  will 
inevitably,  in  time,  choose  his  favourite ;  yet,  as  that  choice  must 
be  without  any  cogency  of  conviction,  the  hopes  or  fears  which  it 
raises  will  be  faint  and  languid.  Of  two  heroes  acting  in  confeder- 
acy against  a  common  enemy,  the  virtues  or  dangers  will  give  little 
emotion,  because  each  claims  our  concern  with  the  same  right,  and 
the  heart  lies  at  rest  between  equal  motives. 

It  ought  to  be  the  first  endeavour  of  a  writer  to  distinguish 
nature  from  custom  ;  or  that  which  is  established  because  it  is  right, 
from  that  which  is  right  only  because  it  is  established ;  that  he 
may  neither  violate  essential  principles  by  a  desire  of  novelty,  nor 
debar  himself  from  the  attainment  of  beauties  within  his  view, 
by  a  needless  fear  of  breaking  rules  which  no  literary  dictator  had 
authority  to  enact. 


FROM  THE   RAMBLER  245 

E.     "MEANNESS"  IN  SHAKESPEARE1 

Words  become  low  by  the  occasions  to  which  they  are  applied,  or 
the  general  character  of  them  who  use  them  ;  and  the  disgust  which 
they  produce  arises  from  the  revival  of  those  images  with  which 
they  are  commonly  united.  Thus,  if,  in  the  most  solemn  discourse, 
a  phrase  happens  to  occur  which  has  been  successfully  employed  in 
some  ludicrous  narrative,  the  gravest  auditor  finds  it  difficult  to 
refrain  from  laughter,  when  they  who  are  not  prepossessed  by  the 
same  accidental  association,  are  utterly  unable  to  guess  the  reason 
of  his  merriment.  Words  which  convey  ideas  of  dignity  in  one 
age,  are  banished  from  elegant  writing  or  conversation  in  another, 
because  they  are  in  time  debased  by  vulgar  mouths,  and  can  be  no 
longer  heard  without  the  involuntary  recollection  of  unpleasing 
images. 

When  Macbeth  is  confirming  himself  in  the  horrid  purpose  of 
stabbing  his  king,  he  breaks  out  amidst  his  emotions  into  a  wish 
natural  for  a  murderer  : 

Come,  thick  night ! 

And  pall  thee  in  the  dunnest  smoke  of  hell, 
That  my  keen  knife  see  not  the  wound  it  makes ; 
Nor  Heaven  peep  through  the  blanket  of  the  dark, 
To  cry,  Hold,  hold  ! 

In  this  passage  is  exerted  all  the  force  of  poetry ;  that  force  whicli 
calls  new  powers  into  being,  which  embodies  sentiment,  and  anim- 
ates matter ;  yet,  perhaps,  scarce  any  man  now  peruses  it  without 
some  disturbance  of  his  attention  from  the  counteraction  of  the 
words  to  the  ideas.  What  can  be  more  dreadful  than  to  implore 
the  presence  of  night,  invested,  not  in  common  obscurity,  but  in 
the  smoke  of  hell?  Yet  the  efficacy  of  this  invocation  is  destroyed 
by  the  insertion  of  an  epithet  now  seldom  heard  but  in  the  stable, 

1  This  memorable  passage  (No.  168)  is  cited  not  to  cast  contempt  upon  John- 
son (did  not  even  Coleridge  boggle  at  "  blanket "  ?),  but  because  it  is  at  once  bane 
and  antidote.  "  Dun"  is  now  never  heard  in  stables  ;  "  knife  "  has  no  special 
"  connection  with  sordid  offices  "  ;  some  of  us,  even  in  and  from  early  childhood, 
have  never  felt  the  least  inclination  to  laugh,  but  much  to  shudder,  at  "  the 
blanket  of  the  dark."  "  This  is  this  to  me,  and  that  to  thee  ! " 


246  JOHNSON 

and  dun  night  may  come  or  go  without  any  other  notice  than 
contempt. 

If  we  start  into  raptures  when  some  hero  of  the  Iliad  tells  us 
that  86pv  /uatVerou,  his  lance  rages  with  eagerness  to  destroy ;  if  we 
are  alarmed  at  the  terror  of  the  soldiers  commanded  by  Caesar 
to  hew  down  the  sacred  grove,  who  dreaded,  says  Lucan,  lest  the 
axe  aimed  at  the  oak  should  fly  back  upon  the  striker : 

Si  robora  sacra  ferirent, 
In  sua  credebant  redituras  membra  secures, 

None  dares  with  impious  steel  the  grove  to  rend 
Lest  on  himself  the  destined  stroke  descend ; 

we  cannot  surely  but  sympathize  with  the  horrors  of  a  wretch 
about  to  murder  his  master,  his  friend,  his  benefactor,  who  suspects 
that  the  weapon  will  refuse  its  office,  and  start  back  from  the  breast 
which  he  is  preparing  to  violate.  Yet  this  sentiment  is  weakened 
by  the  name  of  an  instrument  used  by  butchers  and  cooks  in  the 
meanest  employments ;  we  do  not  immediately  conceive  that  any 
crime  of  importance  is  to  be  committed  with  a  knife  ;  or  who  does 
not,  at  last,  from  the  long  habit  of  connecting  a  knife  with  sordid 
offices,  feel  aversion  rather  than  terror? 

Macbeth  proceeds  to  wish,  in  the  madness  of  guilt,  that  the  inspec- 
tion of  Heaven  may  be  intercepted,  and  that  he  may,  in  the  involu- 
tions of  infernal  darkness,  escape  the  eye  of  Providence.  This  is 
the  utmost  extravagance  of  determined  wickedness  :  yet  this  is 
so  debased  by  two  unfortunate  words,  that  while  I  endeavour  to 
impress  on  my  reader  the  energy  of  the  sentiment,  I  can  scarcely 
check  my  risibility,  when  the  expression  forces  itself  upon  my  mind  ; 
for  who,  without  some  relaxation  of  his  gravity,  can  hear  of  the 
avengers  of  guilt  peeping  through  a  blanket? 

2.     FROM  THE  PREFACE  TO  SHAKESPEARE 

Shakespeare  is,  above  all  writers,  at  least  above  all  modern 
writers,  the  poet  of  nature ;  the  poet  that  holds  up  to  his  readers 
a  faithful  mirror  of  manners  and  of  life.  His  characters  are  not 
modified  by  the  customs  of  particular  places,  unpractised  by  the 
rest  of  the  world;  by  the  peculiarities  of  studies  or  professions, 


FROM  PREFACE  TO   SHAKESPEARE  247 

which  can  operate  but  upon  small  numbers ;  or  by  the  accidents  of 
transient  fashions  or  temporary  opinions :  they  are  the  genuine 
progeny  of  common  humanity,  such  as  the  world  will  always 
supply,  and  observation  will  always  find.  His  persons  act  and 
speak  by  the  influence  of  those  general  passions  and  principles  by 
which  all  minds  are  agitated,  and  the  whole  system  of  life  is  con- 
tinued in  motion.  In  the  writings  of  other  poets  a  character  is  too 
often  an  individual :  in  those  of  Shakespeare  it  is  commonly  a 
species. 

It  is  from  this  wide  extension  of  design  that  so  much  instruction 
is  derived.  It  is  this  which  fills  the  plays  of  Shakespeare  with 
practical  axioms  and  domestic  wisdom.  It  was  said  of  Euripides, 
that  every  verse  was  a  precept ;  and  it  may  be  said  of  Shakespeare, 
that  from  his  works  may  be  collected  a  system  of  civil  and  eco- 
nomical prudence.  Yet  his  real  power  is  not  shewn  in  the  splendour 
of  particular  passages,  but  by  the  progress  of  his  fable,  and  the 
tenor  of  his  dialogue:  and  he  that  tries  to, recommend  him  by 
select  quotations,  will  succeed  like  the  pedant  in  Hierocles,  who, 
when  he  offered  his  house  to  sale,  carried  a  brick  in  his  pocket  as 
a  specimen. 

It  will  not  easily  be  imagined  how  much  Shakespeare  excels  in 
accommodating  his  sentiments  to  real  life,  but  by  comparing  him 
with  other  authors.  It  was  observed  of  the  ancient  schools  of 
declamation  that  the  more  diligently  they  were  frequented,  the 
more  was  the  student  disqualified  for  the  world,  because  he  found 
nothing  there  which  he  should  ever  meet  in  any  other  place.  The 
same  remark  may  be  applied  to  every  stage  but  that  of  Shakespeare. 
The  theatre,  when  it  is  under  any  other  direction,  is  peopled  by 
such  characters  as  were  never  seen,  conversing  in  a  language  which 
was  never  heard,  upon  topics  which  will  never  arise  in  the  com- 
merce of  mankind.  But  the  dialogue  of  this  author  is  often  so 
evidently  determined  by  the  incident,  which  produces  it,  and  is 
pursued  with  so  much  ease  and  simplicity,  that  it  seems  scarcely 
to  claim  the  merit  of  fiction,  but  to  have  been  gleaned  by  diligent 
selection  out  of  common  conversation,  and  common  occurrences. 

Upon  every  other  stage  the  universal  agent  is  love,  by  whose 
power  all  good  and  evil  is  distributed,  and  every  action  quickened 


248  JOHNSON 

or  retarded.  To  bring  a  lover,  a  lady,  and  a  rival  into  the 
fable ;  to  entangle  them  in  contradictory  obligations,  perplex  them 
with  oppositions  of  interest,  and  harass  them  with  violence  of 
desires  inconsistent  with  each  other;  to  make  them  meet  in  rap- 
ture, and  part  in  agony ;  to  fill  their  mouths  with  hyperbolical 
joy  and  outrageous  sorrow ;  to  distress  them  as  nothing  human 
ever  was  distressed;  to  deliver  them  as  nothing  human  ever  was 
delivered;  is  the  business  of  a  modern  dramatist.  For  this, 
probability  is  violated,  life  is  misrepresented,  and  language  is 
depraved.  But  love  is  only  one  of  many  passions ;  and  as  it  has 
no  great  influence  upon  the  sum  of  life,  it  has  little  operation  in 
the  dramas  of  a  poet,  who  caught  his  ideas  from  the  living  world, 
and  exhibited  only  what  he  saw  before  him.  He  knew  that  any 
other  passion,  as  it  was  regular  or  exorbitant,  was  a  cause  of 
happiness  or  calamity. 

Characters  thus  ample  and  general  were  not  easily  discriminated 
and  preserved,  yet  perhaps  no  poet  ever  kept  his  personages  more 
distinct  from  each  other.  I  will  not  say  with  Pope,  that  every 
speech  may  be  assigned  to  the  proper  speaker,  because  many 
speeches  there  are  which  have  nothing  characteristical ;  but,  per- 
haps, though  some  may  be  equally  adapted  to  every  person,  it  will 
be  difficult  to  find  that  any  can  be  properly  transferred  from  the 
present  possessor  to  another  claimant.  The  choice  is  right,  when 
there  is  reason  for  choice. 

Other  dramatists  can  only  gain  attention  by  hyperbolical  or 
aggravated  characters,  by  fabulous  and  unexampled  excellence  or 
depravity,  as  the  writers  of  barbarous  romances  invigorated  the 
reader  by  a  giant  and  a  dwarf;  and  he  that  should  form  his 
expectation  of  human  affairs  from  the  play,  or  from  the  tale,  would 
be  equally  deceived.  Shakespeare  has  no  heroes ;  his  scenes  are 
occupied  only  by  men,  who  act  and  speak  as  the  reader  thinks  that 
he  should  himself  have  spoken  or  acted  on  the  same  occasion  :  even 
where  the  agency  is  supernatural,  the  dialogue  is  level  with  life. 
Other  writers  disguise  the  most  natural  passions  and  most  frequent 
incidents,  so  that  he  who  contemplates  them  in  the  book  will  not 
know  them  in  the  world :  Shakespeare  approximates  the  remote, 
and  familiarizes  the  wonderful ;  the  event  which  he  represents  will 


FROM  PREFACE  TO   SHAKESPEARE  249 

not  happen,  but,  if  it  were  possible,  its  effects  would  probably  be 
such  as  he  has  assigned ;  *  and  it  may  be  said,  that  he  has  not  only 
shewn  human  nature  as  it  acts  in  real  exigencies,  but  as  it  would 
be  found  in  trials,  to  which  it  cannot  be  exposed. 

This  therefore  is  the  praise  of  Shakespeare,  that  his  drama  is 
the  mirror  of  life ;  that  he  who  has  mazed  his  imagination,  in  fol- 
lowing the  phantoms  which  other  writers  raise  up  before  him,  may 
here  be  cured  of  his  delirious  ecstasies,  by  reading  human  senti- 
ments in  human  language,  by  scenes  from  which  a  hermit  may 
estimate  the  transactions  of  the  world,  and  a  confessor  predict 
the  progress  of  the  passions. 

His  adherence  to  general  nature  has  exposed  him  to  the  cens- 
ure of  critics,  who  form  their  judgments  upon  narrower  prin- 
ciples. Dennis  and  Eymer  think  his  Komans  not  sufficiently 
Roman ;  and  Voltaire  censures  his  kings  as  not  completely  royal. 
Dennis  is  offended  that  Menenius,  a  senator  of  Kome,  should  play 
the  buffoon  ;  and  Voltaire  perhaps  thinks  decency  violated  when  the 
Danish  usurper  is  represented  as  a  drunkard.  But  Shakespeare 
always  makes  nature  predominate  over  accident ;  and,  if  he  pre- 
serves the  essential  character,  is  not  very  careful  of  distinctions 
superinduced  and  adventitious.  His  story  requires  Komans  or 
kings,  but  he  thinks  only  on  men.  He  knew  that  Eome,  like  every 
other  city,  had  men  of  all  dispositions ;  and  wanting  a  buffoon, 
he  went  into  the  senate-house  for  that  which  the  senate-house 
would  certainly  have  afforded  him.  He  was  inclined  to  shew  an 
usurper  and  a  murderer  not  only  odious,  but  despicable ;  he  there- 
fore added  drunkenness  to  his  other  qualities,  knowing  that  kings 
love  wine  like  other  men,  and  that  wine  exerts  its  natural  power 
upon  kings.  These  are  the  petty  cavils  of  petty  minds ;  a  poet 
overlooks  the  casual  distinction  of  country  and  condition,  as  a 
painter,  satisfied  with  the  figure,  neglects  the  drapery. 

The  censure  which  he  has  incurred  by  mixing  comic  and  tragic 
scenes,  as  it  extends  to  all  his  works,  deserves  more  consideration. 
Let  the  fact  be  first  stated,  and  then  examined. 

*Quserit  quod  nusquam  est  gentium,  reperit  tamen, 
Facit  illud  verisimile  quod  mendacium  est. 

Plauti  Pseudolus  Act  I  Sc.  iv.  —  STEEVENS. 


250  JOHNSON 

Shakespeare's  plays  are  not  in  the  rigorous  and  critical  sense 
either  tragedies  or  comedies,  but  compositions  of  a  distinct  kind ; 
exhibiting  the  real  state  of  sublunary  nature,  which  partakes  of 
good  and  evil,  joy  and  sorrow,  mingled  with  endless  variety  of  pro- 
portion and  innumerable  modes  of  combination ;  and  expressing 
the  course  of  the  world,  in  which  the  loss  of  one  is  the  gain  of 
another ;  in  which,  at  the  same  time,  the  reveller  is  hasting  to  his 
wine,  and  the  mourner  burying  his  friend ;  in  which  the  malignity 
of  one  is  sometimes  defeated  by  the  frolic  of  another ;  and  many 
mischiefs  and  many  benefits  are  done  and  hindered  without  design. 

Out  of  this  chaos  of  mingled  purposes  and  casualties  the  ancient 
poets,  according  to  the  laws  which  custom  had  prescribed,  selected 
some  the  crimes  of  men,  and  some  their  absurdities ;  some  the 
momentous  vicissitudes  of  life,  and  some  the  lighter  occurrences ; 
some  the  terrors  of  distress,  and  some  the  gaieties  of  prosperity. 
Thus  rose  the  two  modes  of  imitation,  known  by  the  names  of 
tragedy  and  comedy,  compositions  intended  to  promote  different 
ends  by  contrary  means,  and  considered  as  so  little  allied,  that  I 
do  not  recollect  among  the  Greeks  or  Romans  a  single  writer  who 
attempted  both. 

Shakespeare  has  united  the  powers  of  exciting  laughter  and  sor- 
row not  only  in  one  mind,  but  in  one  composition.  Almost  all  his 
plays  are  divided  between  serious  and  ludicrous  characters,  and,  in 
the  successive  evolutions  of  the  design,  sometimes  produce  serious- 
ness and  sorrow,  and  sometimes  levity  and  laughter. 

That  this  is  a  practice  contrary  to  the  rules  of  criticism  will  be 
readily  allowed ;  but  there  is  always  an  appeal  open  from  criticism 
to  nature.  The  end  of  writing  is  to  instruct ;  the  end  of  poetry  is 
to  instruct  by  pleasing.  That  the  mingled  drama  may  convey  all 
the  instruction  of  tragedy  or  comedy  cannot  be  denied,  because 
it  includes  both  in  its  alternations  of  exhibition,  and  approaches 
nearer  than  either  to  the  appearance  of  life,  by  showing  how  great 
machinations  and  slender  designs  may  promote  or  obviate  one 
another,  and  the  high  and  the  low  cooperate  in  the  general  system 
by  unavoidable  concatenation. 

It  is  objected  that  by  this  change  of  scenes  the  passions  are 
interrupted  in  their  progression,  and  that  the  principal  event, 


FROM  PREFACE   TO   SHAKESPEARE  251 

being  not  advanced  by  a  due  gradation  of  preparatory  incidents, 
wants  at  last  the  power  to  move,  which  constitutes  the  perfection 
of  dramatic  poetry.  This  reasoning  is  so  specious  that  it  is  received 
as  true  even  by  those  who  in  daily  experience  feel  it  to  be  false. 
The  interchanges  of  mingled  scenes  seldom  fail  to  produce  the 
intended  vicissitudes  of  passion.  Fiction  cannot  move  so  much 
but  that  the  attention  may  be  easily  transferred;  and  though  it 
must  be  allowed  that  pleasing  melancholy  be  sometimes  interrupted 
by  unwelcome  levity,  yet  let  it  be  considered  likewise  that  melan- 
choly is  often  not  pleasing,  and  that  the  disturbance  of  one  man 
may  be  the  relief  of  another  ;  and  that  different  auditors  have 
different  habitudes ;  and  that,  upon  the  whole,  all  pleasure  consists 
in  variety. 

The  players,  who  in  their  edition  divided  our  author's  works  into 
comedies,  histories,  and  tragedies,  seem  not  to  have  distinguished 
the  three  kinds  by  any  very  exact  or  definite  ideas. 

An  action  which  ended  happily  to  the  principal  persons,  how- 
ever serious  or  distressful  through  its  immediate  incidents,  in  their 
opinion  constituted  a  comedy.  This  idea  of  comedy  continued  long 
amongst  us ;  and  plays  were  written,  which,  by  changing  the  cata- 
strophe, were  tragedies  to-day,  and  comedies  to-morrow. 

Tragedy  was  not  in  those  times  a  poem  of  more  general  dignity 
or  elevation  than  comedy;  it  required  only  a  calamitous  conclusion, 
with  which  the  common  criticism  of  that  age  was  satisfied,  what- 
ever light  pleasure  it  afforded  in  its  progress. 

History  was  a  series  of  actions,  with  no  other  than  chronological 
succession,  independent  of  each  other,  and  without  any  tendency  to 
introduce  or  regulate  the  conclusion.  It  is  not  always  very  nicely 
distinguished  from  tragedy.  There  is  not  much  nearer  approach 
to  unity  of  action  in  the  tragedy  of  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  than  in 
the  history  of  Richard  the  Second.  But  a  history  might  be  continued 
through  many  plays ;  as  it  had  no  plan,  it  had  no  limits. 

Through  all  these  denominations  of  the  drama  Shakespeare's 
mode  of  composition  is  the  same  ;  an  interchange  of  seriousness  and 
merriment,  by  which  the  mind  is  softened  at  one  time  and  exhilar- 
ated at  another.  But  whatever  be  his  purpose,  whether  to  gladden 
or  depress,  or  to  conduct  the  story,  without  vehemence  or  emotion, 


252  JOHNSON 

through  tracts  of  easy  and  familiar  dialogue,  he  never  fails  to  attain 
his  purpose ;  as  he  commands  us  to  laugh  or  mourn,  or  sit  silent 
with  quiet  expectation,  in  tranquillity  without  indifference. 

When  Shakespeare's  plan  is  understood  most  of  the  criticisms  of 
Rymer  and  Voltaire  vanish  away.  The  play  of  Hamlet  is  opened, 
.without  impropriety,  by  two  sentinels ;  lago  bellows  at  Brabantio's 
window,  without  injury  to  the  scheme  of  the  play,  though  in  terms 
which  a  modern  audience  would  not  easily  endure;  the  character 
of  Polonius  is  seasonable  and  useful ;  and  the  grave-diggers  them- 
selves may  be  heard  with  applause. 

Shakespeare  engaged  in  dramatic  poetry  with  the  world  open 
before  him ;  the  rules  of  the  ancients  were  yet  known  to  few ;  the 
public  judgment  was  unformed  :  he  had  no  example  of  such  fame 
as  might  force  him  upon  imitation,  nor  critics  of  such  authority  as 
might  restrain  his  extravagance ;  he  therefore  indulged  his  natural 
disposition ;  and  his  disposition,  as  Ryrner  has  remarked,  led  him 
to  comedy.  In  tragedy  he  often  writes,  with  great  appearance  of 
toil  and  study,  what  is  written  at  last  with  little  felicity ;  but,  in  his 
comic  scenes,  he  seems  to  produce,  without  labour,  what  no  labour 
can  improve.  In  tragedy  he  is  always  struggling  after  some  occasion 
to  be  comic ;  but  in  comedy  he  seems  to  repose,  or  to  luxuriate,  as 
in  a  mode  of  thinking  congenial  to  his  nature.  In  his  tragic  scenes 
there  is  always  something  wanting,  but  his  comedy  often  surpasses 
expectation  or  desire.  His  comedy  pleases  by  the  thoughts  and 
the  language,  and  his  tragedy  for  the  greater  part  by  incident  and 
action.  His  tragedy  seems  to  be  skill,  his  comedy  to  be  instinct. 

The  force  of  his  comic  scenes  has  suffered  little  diminution  from 
the  changes  made  by  a  century  and  a  half,  in  manners  or  in  words. 
As  his  personages  act  upon  principles  arising  from  genuine  passion, 
very  little  modified  by  particular  forms,  their  pleasures  and  vexa- 
tions are  communicable  to  all  times  and  to  all  places ;  they  are 
natural  and  therefore  durable  :  the  adventitious  peculiarities  of  per- 
sonal habits  are  only  superficial  dyes,  bright  and  pleasing  for  a 
little  while,  yet  soon  fading  to  a  dim  tinct,  without  any  remains  of 
their  former  lustre  ;  but  the  discriminations  of  true  passion  are  the 
colours  of  nature  :  they  pervade  the  whole  mass  and  can  only  perish 
with  the  body  that  exhibits  them.  The  accidental  compositions  of 


THE  CHARACTER  OF  POLONIUS  253 

heterogeneous  modes  are  dissolved  by  the  chance  which  combines 
them ;  but  the  uniform  simplicity  of  primitive  qualities  neither 
admits  increase  nor  suffers  decay.  The  sand  heaped  by  one  flood  is 
scattered  by  another,  but  the  rock  always  continues  in  its  place.  The 
stream  of  time,  which  is  continually  washing  the  dissoluble  fabrics  of 
other  poets,  passes  without  injury  by  the  adamant  of  Shakespeare. 

3.     THE  CHARACTER   OF  POLONIUS 

(The  admiration  justly  and  universally  expressed  for  this  note  warrants, 
and  in  fact  demands,  its  insertion.) 

This  account  [Warburton's]  of  the  character  of  Polonius, 
though  it  sufficiently  reconciles  the  seeming  inconsistency  of  so 
much  wisdom  with  so  much  folly,  does  not  perhaps  correspond 
exactly  to  the  ideas  of  our  author.  The  commentator  makes  the 
character  of  Polonius  a  character  only  of  manners,  discriminated 
by  properties,  superficial,  accidental,  and  acquired.  The  poet 
intended  a  nobler  delineation  of  a  mixed  character  of  manners 
and  of  nature.  Polonius  is  a  man  bred  in  courts,  exercised  in  busi- 
ness, stored  with  observation,  confident  in  his  knowledge,  proud  of 
his  eloquence,  and  declining  into  dotage.  His  mode  of  oratory  is 
truly  represented  as  designed  to  ridicule  the  practice  of  those  times, 
of  prefaces  that  made  no  introduction,  and  of  method  that  embar- 
rassed rather  than  explained.  This  part  of  his  character  is  accid- 
ental, the  rest  is  natural.  Such  a  man  is  positive  and  confident, 
because  he  knows  that  his  mind  was  once  strong,  and  knows  not 
that  it  is  become  weak.  Such  a  man  excels  in  general  principles, 
but  fails  in  the  particular  application.  He  is  knowing  in  retro- 
spect, and  ignorant  in  foresight.  While  he  depends  upon  his 
memory,  and  can  draw  from  his  repositories  of  knowledge,  he  utters 
weighty  sentences,  and  gives  useful  counsel ;  but  as  the  mind  in 
its  enfeebled  state  cannot  be  kept  long  busy  and  intent,  the  old 
man  is  subject  to  sudden  dereliction  of  his  faculties,  he  loses  the 
order  of  his  ideas,  and  entangles  himself  in  his  own  thoughts,  till  he 
recovers  the  leading  principle,  and  falls  again  into  his  former  train. 
This  idea  of  dotage  encroaching  upon  wisdom  will  solve  all  the 
phenomena  of  the  character  of  Polonius. 


254  JOHNSON 

4.     "THE   STREAKS   OF  THE  TULIP."1    FROM  RASSELAS 

"The  business  of  a  poet,"  said  Imlac,  "is  to  examine,  not  the 
individual  but  the  species ;  to  remark  general  properties  and  large 
appearances.  He  does  not  number  the  streaks  of  the  tulip,  or 
describe  the  different  shades  in  the  verdure  of  the  forest;  he  is 
to  exhibit  in  his  portraits  of  nature,  such  prominent  and  striking 
features,  as  recall  the  original  to  every  mind ;  and  must  neglect  the 
minuter  discriminations,  which  one  may  have  remarked,  and  another 
have  neglected,  for  those  characteristics  which  are  alike  obvious  to 
vigilance  and  to  carelessness." 2 

(The  Lives  of  the  Poets  are,  with  rare  exceptions,  all  of  importance;  and 
those  of  Milton,  Cowley,  Dryden,  Pope,  and  Gray,  at  least,  are  indispensable 
to  the  English-reading  student  of  criticism.  It  has  therefore  seemed 
unnecessary  to  give  excerpts  which  could  not  be  really  representative, 
especially  as  the  original,  as  a  whole  or  in  greater  or  lesser  parts,  is  easily 
and  cheaply  accessible  and  hardly  in  a  page  superfluous.) 

1  This  passage  is  perhaps  the  most  philosophical  and  authoritative  exposition 
of  the  conventionalizing  and  generalizing  tendency  in  the  neo-Classic  idea  of 
poetry. 

2  Rasselas,  chap,  x,  sub  fin.    In  the  two  remaining  paragraphs  of  the  chapter 
the  poet  is  (as  it  may  seein  to  different  minds)  compensated  or  injured  afresh  by 
being  enjoined  to  cultivate  the  largest  and  at  the  same  time  the  minutest  famil- 
iarity with  the  "modes  of  life,"  entrusted  with  philosophical  and  legislatorial 
prerogatives,  and  bidden  to  acquire  almost  universal  knowledge  .and  command 
of  style. 


XXIV 

SELECTIONS   FROM   THE   PKECUKSOES   OF 
ROMANTICISM   IN  ENGLAND 

SHENSTONE  (d.  1763) 

FROM  ESSAYS   ON   MEN   AND  MANNERS 

Rhymes,  in  elegant  poetry,  should  consist  of  syllables  that  are 
long  in  pronunciation :  such  as  "  are,"  "  ear,"  "  ire,"  "  ore,"  "  your  "  ; 
in  which  a  nice  ear  will  find  more  agreeableness  than  in  these  — 
"  gnat,"  «  net,"  "  knit,"  «  knot,"  "  nut." l 

There  is  a  vast  beauty  (to  me)  in  using  a  word  of  a  particular 
nature  in  the  8th  and  9th  syllables  of  an  English  verse.  I  mean 
what  is  virtually  a  dactyl.  For  instance, 

And  pikes,  the  tyrants  of  the  watry  plains. 

Let  any  person  of  an  ear  substitute  "  liquid  "  instead  of  "  watry," 
and  he  will  find  the  disadvantage.2 

The  words  "  no  more  "  have  a  singular  pathos,  reminding  us  at 
once  of  past  pleasure  and  the  future  exclusion  of  it. 

1  This  is  not  at  all  a  trivial  observation,  but  shows  the  dawn  of  distaste  for 
the  sharp  snapping  couplet.      As  soon  as  the  ear  yearns  for  a  ' '  long-drawn 
sweetness,"  it  is  ready  for  enjambement,  for  those  postponed  rhymes  which 
Johnson  thought  "uncertain,"  and  for  many  other  happy  far-off  things. 

2  That  is  to  say,  Shenstone  pines  —  partially  and  unknowing,  it  may  be  — 
for  trisyllabic  substitution.     He  spells  "watry"  (or  more  probably  "wat'ry," 
for  these  Essays  were  not  published  by  himself),  in  accordance  with  the  Bysshian 
heresy-tyranny ;    but  he  pronounces  wa|te|ry,  as  nature  and  poetic  beauty 
demand.     (See  also  below  on  "the  absurdity  of  contraction.") 

255 


256        PRECURSORS  OF  ROMANTICISM  IN  ENGLAND- 

Every  good  poet  includes  a  critic :  the  reverse  will  not  hold. 

As  there  are  evidently  words  in  English  poetry  that  have  the 
force  of  a  dactyl,  and,  if  properly  inserted,  have  no  small  beauty 
on  that  account,  it  seems  absurd  to  contract  or  print  them  other- 
wise than  at  length  — 

The  loose  wall  tottering  o'er  the  trembling  shade.1 

I  have  sometimes  thought  Virgil  so  remarkably  musical,  that 
were  his  lines  read  to  a  musician  wholly  ignorant  of  the  language, 
by  a  person  of  capacity  to  give  each  word  its  proper  accent,  he 
would  not  fail  to  distinguish  in  it  all  the  graces  of  harmony.2 

GRAY  (dr.  1760) 

Verses  of  eight  syllables  are  so  far  from  being  obliged  to  have 
their  caesura  on  the  fourth,  that  Milton,  the  best  example  of  an 
exquisite  ear  that  I  can  produce,  varies  it  continually. 

The  measure  [Spenser's  in  Shep.  Kal.  February,  etc.,  and  practically 
that  of  Christabel],  like  our  usual  verse  of  eight  syllables,  is  Dimeter 
Iambic  :  but  admits  of  a  Trochee,  Spondee,  Amphibrachys,  Anapaest, 
etc.,  in  almost  every  place. 

\_From  an  Apology  for  Lydyate.~\  It  is  folly  to  judge  of  the 
understanding  and  of,  the  patience  of  those  times  by  our  own. 
They  loved,  I  will  not  say  tediousness,  but  length,  and  a  kind  of 
incumbrance  in  narration.  The  vulgar  do  so  still.  .  .  .  But  we 
need  not  confine  ourselves  to  the  vulgar,  and  to  understandings 
beneath  our  own.  Circumstance  ever  was,  and  ever  will  be,  the  life 
and  the  essence  both  of  oratory  and  of  poetry.  It  has,  in  some 
sort,  the  same  effect  upon  every  mind  that  it  has  upon  that  of  the 
populace  :  and  I  fear  the  quickness  and  delicate  impatience  of 

1  Here  he   takes   more    courage.      In  a  little   he  would   have   seen  that 
"tot\terlng  oer"  is  an  anapaest,  though  "tottering"  may  be  a  dactyl :  and  all 
would  have  been  well. 

2  The  wonderful  pregnancy  of  these  few  remarks  can  only  be  indicated,  not 
commented  on,  here. 


KURD  257 

these  polished  times  in  which  we  live,  are  but  the  forerunners 
of  the  decline  of  all  those  beautiful  arts  which  depend  upon  the 
imagination.1 

HURD  (1762) 
FROM   LETTERS   ON   CHIVALRY   AND   ROMANCE 

(The  contempt  with  which  Hurd  as  a  critic  has  been  spoken  of  is  not 
intelligible.  Like  many  other  men  of  his  time,  he  had  by  no  means  come 
to  a  catholic  point  of  clear  view ;  and  his  annotations  on  Addison,  written 
later  and  when,  like  most  men  who  have  lived  long  in  a  transition  period, 
he  was  disgusted  at  the  younger  generation  outrunning  him,  are  sometimes 
ridiculous.  But  it  is  practically  enough  to  point  to  the  date  above,  and  the 
texts  below,  to  show  that  he  had  more  than  "  glimmerings.") 

May  there  not  be  something  in  the  Gothic  Romance  peculiarly 
suited  to  the  views  of  a  genius  and  to  the  ends  of  poetry  ?  And 
may  not  the  philosophic  moderns  have  gone  too  far  in  their  per- 
petual ridicule  and  contempt  of  it  ? 

Under  [the]  idea,  then,  of  a  Gothic,  not  classical  poem,  the  Fairy 
Queen  is  to  be  read  and  criticised.  And  on  these  principles  it 
would  not  be  difficult  to  unfold  its  merit,  in  another  way  than  has 
been  hitherto  attempted. 

When  an  architect  examines  a  Gothic  structure  by  Grecian  rules, 
he  finds  nothing  but  deformity.  But  the  Gothic  architecture  has 
its  own  rules,  by  which  when  it  comes  to  be  examined,  it  is  seen  to 
have  its  merit  as  well  as  the  Grecian.  The  question  is  not,  which 
of  the  two  is  conducted  in  the  simplest  or  finest  taste :  but  whether 
there  be  not  sense  and  design  in  both,  when  scrutinized  by  the  laws 
on  which  each  is  projected.  The  same  observation  holds  of  the 
two  sorts  of  poetry. 

So  that,  if  you  will  say  anything  against  the  poet's  method,  you 
must  say  that  he  should  not  have  chosen  this  subject.  But  this 

1  From  the  scanty  wreckage  of  notes  for  the  History  of  English  Poetry,  which 
Gray  never  wrote. 


258        PRECURSORS  OF  ROMANTICISM  IN  ENGLAND 

objection  arises  from  your  classic  ideas  of  Unity,  which  have  no 
place  here  :  and  are  in  every  view  foreign  to  the  purpose.  ...  If 
you  ask,  then,  what  is  this  Unity  of  Spenser's  Poem  ?  I  say,  It 
consists  in  the  relation  of  its  several  adventures  to  one  common 
original,  the  appointment  of  the  Fairy  Queen  —  and  to  one  common 
end,  the  completion  of  the  Fairy  Queen's  injunctions.  .  .  .  This  it 
is  true  is  not  the  Classic  Unity,  which  consists  in  the  representation 
of  one  entire  action :  but  it  is  an  Unity  of  another  sort,  an  Unity 
resulting  from  the  respect  which  a  number  of  related  actions  have 
to  one  common  purpose.  In  other  words,  it  is  an  unity  of  Design, 
and  not  of  Action. 

But  the  source  of  bad  criticism,  as  universally  of  bad  philosophy, 
is  the  abuse  of  terms.  A  poet  they  say  must  follow  nature :  and 
by  nature,  we  are  to  suppose,  can  only  be  meant  the  known  and 
experienced  course  of  affairs  in  this  world.  Whereas  the  poet  has 
a  world  of  his  own,  where  experience  has  less  to  do  than  consistent 
imagination.  .  .  .  [In  this]  all  is  marvellous  and  extraordinary; 
yet  not  unnatural  in  one  sense.  .  .  .  This  trite  maxim  of  following 
Nature  is  farther  mistaken  in  applying  it  indiscriminately  to  all 
sorts  of  Poetry  etc. 


XXV 

SELECTIONS    FROM    THE    GERMAN    CRITICS    OF    THE 
EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY 

(Here  again,  and  here  most  of  all,  the  warning  has  to  be  repeated  that 
there  is  no  pretence  or  intention  of  "  ladling  out  the  ocean  in  pailfuls,"  or 
rather  teaspoonfuls.  The  three  extracts  from  Gottsched,  Gellert  (a  title 
only),  and  Lessing  will  mark  the  three  18th-century  stages  of  that  German 
critical  thought  which  had  a  considerable  —  though  a  mainly  indirect,  and 
often  much  exaggerated  —  influence  on  English.  The  first  illustrates  that 
unhesitating  neo-classicism  which,  in  the  earlier  18th  century,  was  repre- 
sented by  Muratori  (who,  however,  had  in  some  ways  much  wider  views) 
in  Italy,  by  Luzdn  in  Spain,  and  by  Voltaire  in  France ;  but  which  in 
England  was  chequered,  and  rendered  to  some  extent  inconsistent,  by  the 
national  Shakespeare-worship  and  the  very  general  respect  for  Milton. 
The  second  illustrates  the  period  of  compromise  and  "  looking  over  the 
shoulder  "  ;  the  third  that  of  the  Romantic  Revolt.  I  have  not  thought  it 
necessary  to  quote  anything  from  Goethe,  who  was  rather  a  very  powerful 
diffuser  than  an  original  in  criticism,  or  from  the  Schlegels,  whose  best 
results,  like  Goethe's,  are  better  represented  by  Coleridge.) 

A.     GOTTSCHED  (1742).     THE  OUTER  AND  NARROWER  RULE 

It  is  absolutely  true  that  the  Fable  is  the  capital  point  (Haupt- 
werfc)  of  Poetry. 

If  this  [Milton's  Pandemonium]  is  not  the  ridiculous  pushed  to 
its  furthest  point,  I  do  not  know  what  poetical  devices  can  be 
thought  to  have  verisimilitude  and  what  not. 

Whether  so  foul  and  really  horrible  an  allegory  [as  Milton's  Sin 
and  Death~\  has  sufficient  verisimilitude  I  shall  express  no  fresh 
opinion  of  my  own,  but  leave  every  one  to  his  own  thoughts  of  it. 

The  Paradise  of  Fools  is  no  better. 

Versuch  einer  kritischen  Dichtkunst  ch.  vi. 
259 


260  GERMAN  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY  CRITICS 

Etc.  etc.  The  warm  championship  of  Milton,  in  opposition  to  Gottsched, 
by  the  Swiss  critics  Bodmer  and  Breitiuger  (who  were  also  devoted  to 
ballads,  German  and  other)  brought  about,  by  no  very  slow  degrees,  a 
complete  revolution  in  German  taste. 

B.     GELLERT.     COMPROMISE  AS   TO  THE  RULE 

The  very  title  of  a  dissertation-lecture  by  this  amiable  opportunist, 
How  far  the  Use  of  Rules  in  Eloquence  and  Poetry  Extends  (to  be  found  in 
his  Works,  v.  153),  shows  the  turn  of  the  tide  sufficiently.  Its  gist  is  that 
rules  are  good  and  useful,  but  only  in  general,  and  with  a  pretty  absolute 
licence  of  exemption  for  genius. 

C.  LESSING.  THE  INNER  AND  LARGER  RULE  " 

(It  may  sometimes  have  happened  that  readers,  accustomed  to  see 
Lessing  extolled  as  the  Deliverer  of  Criticism,  were  disappointed  and  puz- 
zled in  coming  to  his  actual  work.  Such  puzzlement  and  disappointment 
may  be  obviated  by  the  simple  caution  that  in  neither  of  his  famous  crit- 
ical books  was  Lessing  aiming  at  general  criticism  of  literature,  or  even  of 
poetry.  In  the  Laocoon  he  is  discussing  certain  aesthetic  relationships  or 
contrasts  between  poetry  and  the  other  arts  :  in  the  Hamburg  Dramaturgy, 
not  merely  the  theatre  alone,  but  still  more  strictly  the  acting  theatre. 
And  in  this  latter  he  is  conditioned,  not  always  beneficially,  by  a  violent 
Antigallicanism,  and  by  an  Anglomania,  creditable  but  a  very  little  indis- 
criminate. But  the  few  short  passages  which  follow  will  show  the  real 
benefit  —  and  it  was  immense  —  that  he  conferred  by  emancipating  with- 
out anarchy ;  by  inculcating  not  anarchy  at  all,  but  the  Inner  and  Larger 
Rule ;  and  above  all  by  the  little  caution  quoted  last  that  what  he  says  is 
"  for  thoughts."  The  neo-classic  method  had  almost  excluded  thinking  in 
regard  to  particular  points  and  works.  You  bought  your  stop-watch  at 
the  orthodox  shop,  looked  at  it,  and  that  was  enough.  Lessing  gave  the 
Germans  Goethe,  and  us  Coleridge.) 

I.     THE   ANARCHISTS   AND   THE   TRUE    "RULE" 

We  have  now,  God  be  thanked,  a  generation  of  critics  whose 
highest  exercise  in  their  art  is  to  throw  suspicion  on  the  whole  of 
Criticism.  "  Genius,"  they  cry,  "  genius  sets  itself  over  all  rules. 
The  work  of  genius  is  the  rule."  ...  So  do  they  flatter  genius  — 


"FOR  THOUGHTS"  261 

I  suppose  that  we  may  take  them  too  for  geniuses.  But  they  betray 
too  much  that  they  have  not  a  spark  of  it  themselves,  when  in  one 
and  the  same  breath  they  add,  "  Eules  oppress  genius."  As  if  genius 
would  let  itself  be  oppressed  by  anything  whatsoever  !  especially 
by  what,  as  they  confess,  is  derived  from  itself.  Not  every  critic 
of  art  is  a  genius  :  but  every  genius  is  born  a  critic  of  art.  He  has 
within  himself  the  evidence  of  all  rules  :  but  he  seizes,  remembers, 
and  follows  only  those  that  express  his  own  feelings  for  him  in 
words.  And  can  these  expressions  of  his  own  feelings  restrain  his 
action  ?  Argue  with  him  as  you  like,  he  takes  you  only  so  far 
as  your  generalities  strike  him  as  recognizable  in  the  particular 
case  of  the  moment.  This  alone  he  remembers ;  and  it  affects  him, 
as  he  works,  just  as  the  memory  of  a  happy  example  or  an  indi- 
vidual experience  might  do.  To  assert,  therefore,  that  rules  and 
criticism  can  oppress  genius,  is  in  other  words  to  assert  that  practice 
and  example  are  oppressive  —  it  is  to  limit  genius  not  merely  to 
itself,  but  to  its  own  first  attempts.1  .77  D  96 


II.     "FOR   THOUGHTS" 

I  remind  my  readers  here  that  these  papers  attempt  anything 
rather  than  to  contain  a  complete  dramatic  system.  I  am  there- 
fore not  obliged  to  solve  all  the  difficulties  that  I  raise.  My 
thoughts  may  seem  to  have  very  little  consistency  —  yea,  even  to 
contradict  themselves  —  provided  that  they  are  at  least  matter  for 
thoughts  in  others.  I  would  here  but  strew  "  germs  of  cognition  " 
(fermenta  cognitionis)  .*  IUd  95  sub 


1  We  may  see  in  this  passage  how  far  the  "  turn  of  the  see-saw"  had  gone. 
Lessing  has  actually  forgotten  that  genius  had  been  limited  to  certain  "happy 
examples  "  ;  had  been  ordered  to  regard  them  not  in  this  light,  but  as  prohibiting 
and  exclusive  restrictions. 

2  At  the  end  of  the  Dramaturgy  (No.  104)  Lessing  avows  absolute  faith  in 
Aristotle,  absolute  tmfaith  in  the  French  travesties  of  him,  and  infinite  indebted- 
ness to  the  English  theatre  for  helping  Germans  to  break  the  French  bonds. 
But  his  eirenicon  of  Aristotle  and  Shakespeare  themselves  remains  unwritten  — 
only  "strewed  germinally." 


XXVI 

WORDSWORTH   ON   POETRY  AND  POETIC   DICTION 


1.  PREFACE  TO  SECOND  EDITION  OF  LYRICAL 
BALLADS,  1800 

The  first  volume  of  these  Poems  has  already  been  submitted 
to  general  perusal.  It  was  published  as  an  experiment,  which,  I 
hoped,  might  be  of  some  use  to  ascertain  how  far,  by  fitting  to 
metrical  arrangement  a  selection  of  the  real  language  of  men  in  a 
state  of  vivid  sensation,  that  sort  of  pleasure  and  that  quantity  of 
pleasure  may  be  imparted,  which  a  Poet  may  rationally  endeavour 
to  impart. 

I  had  formed  no  very  inaccurate  estimate  of  the  probable  effect 
of  those  Poems :  I  flattered  myself  that  they  who  should  be  pleased 
with  them  would  read  them  with  more  than  common  pleasure  :  and, 
on  the  other  hand,  I  was  well  aware,  that  by  those  who  should 
dislike  them  they  would  be  read  with  more  than  common  dislike. 
The  result  has  differed  from  my  expectation  in  this  only,  that  a 
greater  number  have  been  pleased  than  I  ventured  to  hope  I  should 
please. 

Several  of  my  friends  are  anxious  for  the  success  of  these 
Poems,  from  a  belief,  that,  if  the  views  with  which  they  were  com- 
posed were  indeed  realised,  a  class  of  poetry  would  be  produced, 
well  adapted  to  interest  mankind  permanently,  and  not  unimport- 
ant in  the  quality  and  in  the  multiplicity  of  its  moral  relations : 
and  on  this  account  they  have  advised  me  to  prefix  a  systematic 
defence  of  the  theory  upon  which  the  Poems  were  written.  But 
I  was  unwilling  to  undertake  the  task,  knowing  that  on  this  occa- 
sion the  reader  would  look  coldly  upon  my  arguments,  since  I 

262 


PREFACE  TO   LYRICAL  BALLADS  263 

might  be  suspected  of  having  been  principally  influenced  by  the 
selfish  and  foolish  hope  of  reasoning  him  into  an  approbation  of 
these  particular  Poems :  and  I  was  still  more  unwilling  to  under- 
take the  task,  because  adequately  to  display  the  opinions,  and 
fully  to  enforce  the  arguments,  would  require  a  space  wholly  dis- 
proportionate to  a  preface.  For,  to  treat  the  subject  with  the 
clearness  and  coherence  of  which  it  is  susceptible,  it  would  be 
necessary  to  give  a  full  account  of  the  present  state  of  the  public 
taste  in  this  country,  and  to  determine  how  far  this  taste  is  healthy 
or  depraved ;  which,  again,  could  not  be  determined  without  point- 
ing out  in  what  manner  language  and  the  human  mind  act  and 
re-act  on  each  other,  and  without  retracing  the  revolutions,  not  of 
literature  alone,  but  likewise  of  society  itself.  I  have  therefore 
altogether  declined  to  enter  regularly  upon  this  defence ;  yet  I 
am  sensible  that  there  would  be  something  like  impropriety  in 
abruptly  obtruding  upon  the  public,  without  a  few  words  of  intro- 
duction, poems  so  materially  different  from  those  upon  which 
general  approbation  is  at  present  bestowed. 

It  is  supposed,  that  by  the  act  of  writing  in  verse  an  author 
makes  a  formal  engagement  that  he  will  gratify  certain  known 
habits  of  association ;  that  he  not  only  thus  apprises  the  reader 
that  certain  classes  of  ideas  and  expressions  will  be  found  in  his 
book,  but  that  others  will  be  carefully  excluded.  This  exponent 
or  symbol  held  forth  by  metrical  language  must  in  different  eras  of 
literature  have  excited  very  different  expectations  :  for  example,  in 
the  age  of  Catullus,  Terence,  and  Lucretius,  and  that  of  Statius  or 
Claudian ;  and  in  our  own  country,  in  the  age  of  Shakespeare  and 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  and  that  of  Donne  and  Cowley,  or  Dryden, 
or  Pope.  I  will  not  take  upon  me  to  determine  the  exact  import  of 
the  promise  which,  by  the  act  of  writing  in  verse,  an  author  in  the 
present  day  makes  to  his  reader :  but  it  will  undoubtedly  appear 
to  many  persons  that  I  have  not  fulfilled  the  terms  of  an  engage- 
ment thus  voluntarily  contracted.  They  who  have  been  accustomed 
to  the  gaudiness  and  inane  phraseology  of  many  modern  writers,  if 
they  persist  in  reading  this  book  to  its  conclusion,  will,  no  doubt, 
frequently  have  to  struggle  with  feelings  of  strangeness  and  awk- 
wardness :  they  will  look  round  for  poetry,  and  will  be  induced  to 


264      WORDSWORTH  ON  POETRY  AND  POETIC  DICTION 

enquire  by  what  species  of  courtesy  these  attempts  can  be  per- 
mitted to  assume  that  title.  I  hope  therefore  the  reader  will 
not  censure  me  for  attempting  to  state  what  I  have  proposed  to 
myself  to  perform ;  and  also  (as  far  as  the  limits  of  a  preface 
will  permit)  to  explain  some  of  the  chief  reasons  which  have 
determined  me  in  the  choice  of  my  purpose :  that  at  least  he  may 
be  spared  any  unpleasant  feeling  of  disappointment,  and  that  I 
myself  may  be  protected  from  one  of  the  most  dishonourable 
accusations  which  can  be  brought  against  an  author ;  namely,  that 
of  an  indolence  which  prevents  him  from  endeavouring  to  ascertain 
what  is  his  duty,  or,  when  his  duty  is  ascertained,  prevents  him 
from  performing  it. 

The  principal  object,  then,  proposed  in  these  Poems  was  to 
choose  incidents  and  situations  from  common  life,  and  to  relate  or 
describe  them,  throughout,  as  far  as  was  possible  in  a  selection  of 
language  really  used  by  men,  and,  at  the  same  time,  to  throw  over 
them  a  certain  colouring  of  imagination,  whereby  ordinary  things 
should  be  presented  to  the  mind  in  an  unusual  aspect ;  and,  further, 
and  above  all,  to  make  these  incidents  and  situations  interesting  by 
tracing  in  them,  truly  though  not  ostentatiously,  the  primary  laws 
of  our  nature :  chiefly,  as  far  as  regards  the  manner  in  which  we 
associate  ideas  in  a  state  of  excitement.  Humble  and  rustic  life 
was  generally  chosen,  because  in  that  condition  the  essential  pas- 
sions of  the  heart  find  a  better  soil  in  which  they  can  attain  their 
maturity,  are  less  under  restraint,  and  speak  a  plainer  and  more 
emphatic  language ;  because  in  that  condition  of  life  our  elementary 
feelings  co-exist  in  a  state  of  greater  simplicity,  and,  consequently, 
may  be  more  accurately  contemplated,  and  more  forcibly  commun- 
icated ;  because  the  manners  of  rural  life  germinate  from  those 
elementary  feelings,  and,  from  the  necessary  character  of  rural 
occupations,  are  more  easily  comprehended,  and  are  more  durable ; 
and  lastly,  because  in  that  condition  the  passions  of  men  are  incor- 
porated with  the  beautiful  and  permanent  forms  of  nature.  The 
language,  too,  of  these  men  has  been  adopted  (purified  indeed  from 
what  appear  to  be  its  real  defects,  from  all  lasting  and  rational 
causes  of  dislike  or  disgust)  because  such  men  hourly  communicate 
with  the  best  objects  from  which  the  best  part  of  language  is 


PREFACE  TO   LYRICAL  BALLADS  265 

originally  derived ;  and  because,  from  their  rank  in  society  and  the 
sameness  and  narrow  circle  of  their  intercourse,  being  less  under 
the  influence  of  social  vanity,  they  convey  their  feelings  and  notions 
in  simple  and  unelaborated  expressions.  Accordingly,  such  a  langu- 
age, arising  out  of  repeated  experience  and  regular  feelings,  is  a 
more  permanent,  and  a  far  more  philosophical  language,  than  that 
which  is  frequently  substituted  for  it  by  poets,  who  think  that 
they  are  conferring  honour  upon  themselves  and  their  art,  in  pro- 
portion as  they  separate  themselves  from  the  sympathies  of  men, 
and  indulge  in  arbitrary  and  capricious  habits  of  expression,  in 
order  to  furnish  food  for  fickle  tastes,  and  fickle  appetites,  of  their 
own  creation.* 

I  cannot,  however,  be  insensible  to  the  present  outcry  against  the 
triviality  and  meanness,  both  of  thought  and  language,  which  some 
of  my  contemporaries  have  occasionally  introduced  into  their  metr- 
ical compositions ;  and  I  acknowledge  that  this  defect,  where  it 
exists,  is  more  dishonourable  to  the  writer's  own  character  than 
false  refinement  or  arbitrary  innovation,  though  I  should  contend 
at  the  same  time,  that  it  is  far  less  pernicious  in  the  sum  of  its 
consequences.  From  such  verses  the  poems  in  these  volumes  will 
be  found  distinguished  at  least  by  one  mark  of  difference,  that  each 
of  them  has  a  worthy  purpose.  Not  that  I  always  began  to  write 
with  a  distinct  purpose  formally  conceived ;  but  habits  of  medita- 
tion have,  I  trust,  so  prompted  and  regulated  my  feelings,  that  my 
descriptions  of  such  objects  as  strongly  excite  those  feelings,  will 
be  found  to  carry  along  with  them  a  purpose.  If  this  opinion  be 
erroneous,  I  can  have  little  right  to  the  name  of  a  Poet.  For  all 
good  poetry  is  the  spontaneous  overflow  of  powerful  feelings  :  and 
though  this  be  true,  Poems  to  which  any  value  can  be  attached 
were  never  produced  on  any  variety  of  subjects  but  by  a  man  who, 
being  possessed  of  more  than  usual  organic  sensibility,  had  also 
thought  long  and  deeply.  For  our  continued  influxes  of  feeling 
are  modified  and  directed  by  our  thoughts,  which  are  indeed  the 
representatives  of  all  our  past  feelings ;  and  as,  by  contemplating 

*  It  is  worth  while  here  to  observe,  that  the  affecting  parts  of  Chaucer  are 
almost  always  expressed  in  language  pure  and  universally  intelligible  even  to 
this  day. 


266      WORDSWORTH  ON  POETRY  AND  POETIC  DICTION 

the  relation  of  these  general  representatives  to  each  other,  we 
discover  what  is  really  important  to  men,  so,  by  the  repetition 
and  continuance  of  this  act,  our  feelings  will  be  connected  with 
important  subjects,  till  at  length,  if  we  be  originally  possessed  of 
much  sensibility,  such  habits  of  mind  will  be  produced,  that,  by 
obeying  blindly  and  mechanically  the  impulses  of  those  habits,  we 
shall  describe  objects,  and  utter  sentiments,  of  such  a  nature,  and 
in  such  connection  with  each  other,  that  the  understanding  of  the 
reader  must  necessarily  be  in  some  degree  enlightened,  and  his 
affections  strengthened  and  purified. 

It  has  been  said  that  each  of  these  Poems  has  a  purpose.  Another 
circumstance  must  be  mentioned  which  distinguishes  these  Poems 
from  the  popular  poetry  of  the  day ;  it  is  this,  that  the  feeling 
therein  developed  gives  importance  to  the  action  and  situation,  and 
not  the  action  and  situation  to  the  feeling. 

A  sense  of  false  modesty  shall  not  prevent  me  from  asserting, 
that  the  reader's  attention  is  pointed  to  this  mark  of  distinction,  far 
less  for  the  sake  of  these  particular  Poems  than  from  the  general 
importance  of  the  subject.  The  subject  is  indeed  important !  For 
the  human  mind  is  capable  of  being  excited  without  the  application 
of  gross  and  violent  stimulants ;  and  he  must  have  a  very  faint 
perception  of  its  beauty  and  dignity  who  does  not  know  this,  and 
who  does  not  further  know,  that  one  being  is  elevated  above 
another  in  proportion  as  he  possesses  this  capability.  It  has 
therefore  appeared  to  me,  that  to  endeavour  to  produce  or  enlarge 
this  capability  is  one  of  the  best  services  in  which,  at  any  period, 
a  writer  can  be  engaged;  but  this  service,  excellent  at  all  times, 
is  especially  so  at  the  present  day.  For  a  multitude  of  causes, 
unknown  to  former  times,  are  now  acting  with  a  combined  force 
to  blunt  the  discriminating  powers  of  the  mind,  and,  unfitting  it 
for  all  voluntary  exertion,  to  reduce  it  to  a  state  of  almost  savage 
torpor.  The  most  effective  of  these  causes  are  the  great  national 
events  which  are  daily  taking  place,  and  the  increasing  accumula- 
tion of  men  in  cities,  where  the  uniformity  of  their  occupations 
produces  a  craving  for  extraordinary  incident,  which  the  rapid 
communication  of  intelligence  hourly  gratifies.  To  this  tendency 
of  life  and  manners  the  literature  and  theatrical  exhibitions  of  the 


PREFACE   TO  LYRICAL   BALLADS  267 

country  have  conformed  themselves.  The  invaluable  works  of 
our  elder  writers,  I  had  almost  said  the  works  of  Shakespeare 
and  Milton,  are  driven  into  neglect  by  frantic  novels,  sickly  and 
stupid  German  tragedies,  and  deluges  of  idle  and  extravagant 
stories  in  verse.  —  When  I  think  upon  this  degrading  thirst  after 
outrageous  stimulation,  I  am  almost  ashamed  to  have  spoken  of 
the  feeble  endeavour  made  in  these  volumes  to  counteract  it; 
and,  reflecting  upon  the  magnitude  of  the  general  evil,  I  should 
be  oppressed  with  no  dishonourable  melancholy,  had  I  not  a  deep 
impression  of  certain  inherent  and  indestructible  qualities  of  the 
human  mind,  and  likewise  of  certain  powers  in  the  great  and  per- 
manent objects  that  act  upon  it,  which  are  equally  inherent  and 
indestructible ;  and  were  there  not  added  to  this  impression  a  belief, 
that  the  time  is  approaching  when  the  evil  will  be  systematically 
opposed,  by  men  of  greater  powers,  and  with  far  more  distinguished 
success. 

Having  dwelt  thus  long  on  the  subjects  and  aim  of  these  Poems, 
I  shall  request  the  reader's  permission  to  apprise  him  of  a  few 
circumstances  relating  to  their  style,  in  order,  among  other  reasons, 
that  he  may  not  censure  me  for  not  having  performed  what  I  never 
attempted.  The  reader  will  find  that  personifications  of  abstract 
ideas  rarely  occur  in  these  volumes ;  and  are  utterly  rejected,  as  an 
ordinary  device  to  elevate  the  style,  and  'raise  it  above  prose.  My 
purpose  was  to  imitate,  and,  as  far  as  is  possible,  to  adopt  the  very 
language  of  men ;  and  assuredly  such  personifications  do  not  make 
any  natural  or  regular  part  of  that  language.  They  are,  indeed,  a 
figure  of  speech  occasionally  prompted  by  passion,  and  I  have  made 
use  of  them  as  such ;  but  have  endeavoured  utterly  to  reject  them 
as  a  mechanical  device  of  style,  or  as  a  family  language  which 
writers  in  metre  seem  to  lay  claim  to  by  prescription.  I  have 
wished  to  keep  the  reader  in  the  company  of  flesh  and  blood,  per- 
suaded that  by  so  doing  I  shall  interest  him.  Others  who  pursue 
a  different  track  will  interest  him  likewise  ;  I  do  not  interfere  with 
their  claim,  but  wish  to  prefer  a  claim  of  my  own.  There  will  also 
be  found  in  these  volumes  little  of  what  is  usually  called  poetic 
diction  •,  as  much  pains  has  been  taken  to  avoid  it  as  is  ordinarily 
taken  to  produce  it;  this  has  been  done  for  the  reason  already 


268      WORDSWORTH  ON  POETRY  AND  POETIC  DICTION 

alleged,  to  bring  my  language  near  to  the  language  of  men ;  and 
further,  because  the  pleasure  which  I  have  proposed  to  myself  to 
impart,  is  of  a  kind  very  different  from  that  which  is  supposed  by 
many  persons  to  be  the  proper  object  of  poetry.  Without  being 
culpably  particular,  I  do  not  know  how  to  give  my  reader  a  more 
exact  notion  of  the  style  in  which  it  was  my  wish  and  intention  to 
write,  than  by  informing  him  that  I  have  at  all  times  endeavoured 
to  look  steadily  at  my  subject ;  consequently,  there  is  I  hope  in 
these  Poems  little  falsehood  of  description,  and  my  ideas  are 
expressed  in  language  fitted  to  their  respective  importance.  Some- 
thing must  have  been  gained  by  this  practice,  as  it  is  friendly  to 
one  property  of  all  good  poetry,  namely,  good  sense :  but  it  has 
necessarily  cut  me  off  from  a  large  portion  of  phrases  and  figures 
of  speech  which  from  father  to  son  have  long  been  regarded  as  the 
common  inheritance  of  poets.  I  have  also  thought  it  expedient  to 
restrict  myself  still  further,  having  abstained  from  the  use  of  many 
expressions,  in  themselves  proper  and  beautiful,  but  which  have 
been  foolishly  repeated  by  bad  poets,  till  such  feelings  of  disgust 
are  connected  with  them  as  it  is  scarcely  possible  by  any  art  of 
association  to  overpower. 

If  in  a  poem  there  should  be  found  a  series  of  lines,  or  even  a 
single  line,  in  which  the  language,  though  naturally  arranged,  and 
according  to  the  strict  laws  of  metre,  does  not  differ  from  that  of 
prose,  there  is  a  numerous  class  of  critics,  who,  when  they  stumble 
upon  these  prosaisms,  as  they  call  them,  imagine  that  they  have 
made  a  notable  discovery,  and  exult  over  the  poet  as  over  a  man 
ignorant  of  his  own  profession.  Now  these  men  would  establish  a 
canon  of  criticism  which  the  reader  will  conclude  he  must  utterly 
reject,  if  he  wishes  to  be  pleased  with  these  volumes.  And  it  would 
be  a  most  easy  task  to  prove  to  him,  that  not  only  the  language  of 
a  large  portion  of  every  good  poem,  even  of  the  most  elevated 
character,  must  necessarily,  except  with  reference  to  the  metre,  in 
no  respect  differ  from  that  of  good  prose,  but  likewise  that  some 
of  the  most  interesting  parts  of  the  best  poems  will  be  found  to  be 
strictly  the  language  of  prose  when  prose  is  well  written.  The 
truth  of  this  assertion  might  be  demonstrated  by  innumerable 
passages  from  almost  all  the  poetical  writings,  even  of  Milton 


PREFACE  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS  269 

himself.  To  illustrate  the  subject  in  a  general  manner,  I  will 
here  adduce  a  short  composition  of  Gray,  who  was  at  the  head  of 
those  who,  by  their  reasonings,  have  attempted  to  widen  the  space 
of  separation  betwixt  prose  and  metrical  composition,  and  was 
more  than  any  other  man  curiously  elaborate  in  the  structure  of 
his  own  poetic  diction. 

In  vain  to  me  the  smiling  mornings  shine, 
And  reddening  Phoebus  lifts  his  golden  fire ; 
The  birds  in  vain  their  amorous  descant  join, 
Or  cheerful  fields  resume  their  green  attire. 
These  ears,  alas !  for  other  notes  repine ; 
A  different  object  do  these  eyes  require; 
My  lonely  anguish  melts  no  heart  but  mine; 
And  in  my  breast  the  imperfect  joys  expire; 
Yet  morning  smiles  the  busy  race  to  cheer, 
And  new-born  pleasure  brings  to  happier  men ; 
The  fields  to  all  their  wonted  tribute  bear ; 
To  warm  their  little  loves  the  birds  complain. 
I  fruitless  mourn  to  him  that  cannot  hear, 
And  weep  the  more  because  I  weep  in  vain. 

It  will  easily  be  perceived,  that  the  only  part  of  this  sonnet 
which  is  of  any  value  is  the  lines  printed  in  italics ;  it  is  equally 
obvious,  that,  except  in  the  rhyme,  and  in  the  use  of  the  single  word 
"  fruitless  "  for  fruitlessly,  which  is  so  far  a  defect,  the  language 
of  these  lines  does  in  no  respect  differ  from  that  of  prose. 

By  the  foregoing  quotation  it  has  been  shown  that  the  language 
of  prose  may  yet  be  well  adapted  to  poetry ;  and  it  was  previously 
asserted,  that  a  large  portion  of  the  language  of  every  good  poem 
can  in  no  respect  differ  from  that  of  good  prose.  We  will  go 
further.  It  may  be  safely  affirmed,  that  there  neither  is,  nor  can 
be,  any  essential  difference  between  the  language  of  prose  and 
metrical  composition.  We  are  fond  of  tracing  the  resemblance 
between  poetry  and  painting,  and,  accordingly,  we  call  them 
sisters :  but  where  shall  we  find  bonds  of  connection  sufficiently 
strict  to  typify  the  affinity  betwixt  metrical  and  prose  composi- 
tion ?  They  both  speak  by  and  to  the  same  organs ;  the  bodies  in 
which  both  of  them  are  clothed  may  be  said  to  be  of  the  same  sub- 
stance, their  affections  are  kindred,  and  almost  identical,  not 


270      WORDSWORTH  ON  POETRY  AND  POETIC  DICTION 

necessarily  differing  even  in  degree  ;  Poetry  *  sheds  no  tears  "  such 
as  Angels  weep,"  but  natural  and  human  tears  ;  she  can  boast  of 
no  celestial  ichor  that  distinguishes  her  vital  juices  from  those  of 
prose ;  the  same  human  blood  circulates  through  the  veins  of  them 
both. 

If  it  be  affirmed  that  rhyme  and  metrical  arrangement  of  them- 
selves constitute  a  distinction  which  overturns  what  has  just  been 
said  on  the  strict  affinity  of  metrical  language  with  that  of  prose, 
and  paves  the  way  for  other  artificial  distinctions  which  the  mind 
voluntarily  admits,  I  answer  that  the  language  of  such  poetry  as  is 
here  recommended  is,  as  far  as  is  possible,  a  selection  of  the  langu- 
age really  spoken  by  men ;  that  this  selection,  wherever  it  is  made 
with  true  taste  and  feeling,  will  of  itself  form  a  distinction  far 
greater  than  would  at  first  be  imagined,  and  will  entirely  separate 
the  composition  from  the  vulgarity  and  meanness  of  ordinary  life ; 
and,  if  metre  be  superadded  thereto,  I  believe  that  a  dissimili- 
tude will  be  produced  altogether  sufficient  for  the  gratification  of  a 
rational  mind.  What  other  distinction  would  we  have  ?  Whence 
is  it  to  come?  And  where  is  it  to  exist?  Not,  surely,  where  the 
poet  speaks  through  the  mouths  of  his  characters :  it  cannot  be 
necessary  here,  either  for  elevation  of  style,  or  any  of  its  supposed 
ornaments :  for,  if  the  poet's  subject  be  judiciously  chosen,  it  will 
naturally,  and  upon  fit  occasion,  lead  him  to  passions  the  language 
of  which,  if  selected  truly  and  judiciously,  must  necessarily  be 
dignified  and  variegated,  and  alive  with  metaphors  and  figures.  I 
forbear  to  speak  of  an  incongruity  which  would  shock  the  intel- 
ligent reader,  should  the  poet  interweave  any  foreign  splendour  of 
his  own  with  that  which  the  passion  naturally  suggests :  it  is  suf- 
ficient to  say  that  such  addition  is  unnecessary.  And,  surely,  it  is 
more  probable  that  those  passages,  which  with  propriety  abound 

*I  here  use  the  word  "Poetry"  (though  against  my  own  judgment)  as 
opposed  to  the  word  Prose,  and  synonymous  with  metrical  composition.  But 
much  confusion  has  been  introduced  into  criticism  by  this  contradistinction  of 
Poetry  and  Prose,  instead  of  the  more  philosophical  one  of  Poetry  and  Matter 
of  Fact,  or  Science.  The  only  strict  antithesis  to  Prose  is  Metre ;  nor  is  this,  in 
truth,  a  strict  antithesis,  because  lines  and  passages  of  metre  so  naturally  occur 
in  writing  prose,  that  it  would  be  scarcely  possible  to  avoid  them,  even  were  it 
desirable. 


PREFACE   TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS  271 

with  metaphors  and  figures,  will  have  their  due  effect,  if,  upon 
other  occasions  where  the  passions  are  of  a  milder  character,  the 
style  also  be  subdued  and  temperate. 

But,  as  the  pleasure  which  I  hope  to  give  by  the  Poems  now 
presented  to  the  reader  must  depend  entirely  on  just  notions  upon 
this  subject,  and,  as  it  is  in  itself  of  high  importance  to  our  taste 
and  moral  feelings,  I  cannot  content  myself  with  these  detached 
remarks.  And  if,  in  what  I  am  about  to  say,  it  shall  appear  to 
some  that  my  labour  is  unnecessary,  and  that  I  am  like  a  man 
fighting  a  battle  without  enemies,  such  persons  may  be  reminded, 
that,  whatever  be  the  language  outwardly  holden  by  men,  a  prac- 
tical faith  in  the  opinions  which  I  am  wishing  to  establish  is 
almost  unknown.  If  my  conclusions  are  admitted,  and  carried  as 
far  as  they  must  be  carried  if  admitted  at  all,  our  judgments  con- 
cerning the  works  of  the  greatest  poets  both  ancient  and  modern 
will  be  far  different  from  what  they  are  at  present,  both  when  we 
praise,  and  when  we  censure  :  and  our  moral  feelings  influencing 
and  influenced  by  these  judgments  will,  I  believe,  be  corrected  and 
purified. 

Taking  up  the  subject,  then,  upon  general  grounds,  let  me  ask, 
what  is  meant  by  the  word  Poet?  What  is  a  Poet?  To  whom 
does  he  address  himself?  And  what  language  is  to  be  expected 
from  him?  —  He  is  a  man  speaking  to  men:  a  man,  it  is  true, 
endowed  with  more  lively  sensibility,  inoFe^ehthusiasm  and  tender- 
ness, who  has  a  greater  knowledge  of  human  nature,  and  a  more 
comprehensive  soul,  than  are  supposed  to  be  common  among  man- 
kind ;  a  man  pleased  with  his  own  passions  and  volitions,  and  who 
rejoices  more  than  other  men  in  the  spirit  of  life  that  is  in  him; 
delighting  to  contemplate  similar  volitions  and  passions  as  mani- 
fested in  the  goings-on  of  the  Universe,  and  habitually  impelled  to 
create  them  where  he  does  not  find  them.  To  these  qualities  he 
has  added  a  disposition  to  be  affected  more  than  other  men  by 
absent  things  as  if  they  were  present ;  an  ability  of  conjuring  up 
in  himself  passions,  which  are  indeed  far  from  being  the  same 
as  those  produced  by  real  events,  yet  (especially  in  those  parts  of 
the  general  sympathy  which  are  pleasing  and  delightful)  do  more 
nearly  resemble  the  passions  produced  by  real  events,  than  anything 


272     WORDSWORTH  ON  POETRY  AND  POETIC  DICTION 

which,  from  the  motions  of  their  own  minds  merely,  other  men  are 
accustomed  to  feel  in  themselves  :  —  whence,  and  from  practice,  he 
has  acquired  a  greater  readiness  and  power  in  expressing  what  he 
thinks  and  feels,  and  especially  those  thoughts  and  feelings  which, 
by  his  own  choice,  or  from  the  structure  of  his  own  mind,  arise  in 
him  without  immediate  external  excitement. 

But  whatever  portion  of  this  faculty  we  may  suppose  even  the 
greatest  Poet  to  possess,  there  cannot  be  a  doubt  that  the  language 
which  it  will  suggest  to  him,  must  often,  in  liveliness  and  truth, 
fall  short  of  that  which  is  uttered  by  men  in  real  life,  under  the 
actual  pressure  of  those  passions,  certain  shadows  of  which  the 
Poet  thus  produces,  or  feels  to  be  produced,  in  himself. 

However  exalted  a  notion  we  would  wish  to  cherish  of  the  charac- 
ter of  a  Poet,  it  is  obvious,  that  while  he  describes  and  imitates 
passions,  his  employment  is  in  some  degree  mechanical,  compared 
with  the  freedom  and  power  of  real  and  substantial  action  and 
suffering.  So  that  it  will  be  the  wish  of  the  Poet  to  bring  his  feel- 
ings near  to  those  of  the  persons  whose  feelings  he  describes,  nay, 
for  short  spaces  of  time,  perhaps,  to  let  himself  slip  into  an  entire 
delusion,  and  even  confound  and  identify  his  own  feelings  with 
theirs ;  modifying  only  the  language  which  is  thus  suggested  to 
him  by  a  consideration  that  he  describes  for  a  particular  purpose, 
that  of  giving  pleasure.  Here,  then,  he  will  apply  the  principle  of 
selection  which  has  been  already  insisted  upon.  He  will  depend 
upon  this  for  removing  what  would  otherwise  be  painful  or  dis- 
gusting in  the  passion ;  he  will  feel  that  there  is  no  necessity  to 
trick  out  or  to  elevate  nature :  and,  the  more  industriously  he 
applies  this  principle,  the  deeper  will  be  his  faith  that  no  words, 
which  his  fancy  or  imagination  can  suggest,  will  be  to  be  compared 
with  those  which  are  the  emanations  of  reality  and  truth. 

But  it  may  be  said  by  those  who  do  not  object  to  the  general 
spirit  of  these  remarks,  that,  as  it  is  impossible  for  the  Poet  to  pro- 
duce upon  all  occasions  language  as  exquisitely  fitted  for  the  passion 
as  that  which  the  real  passion  itself  suggests,  it  is  proper  that  he 
should  consider  himself  as  in  the  situation  of  a  translator,  who 
does  not  scruple  to  substitute  excellencies  of  another  kind  for  those 
which  are  unattainable  by  him ;  and  endeavours  occasionally  to 


PREFACE  TO   LYRICAL  BALLADS  273 

surpass  his  original,  in  order  to  make  some  amends  for  the  general 
inferiority  to  which  he  feels  that  he  must  submit.  But  this  would 
be  to  encourage  idleness  and  unmanly  despair.  Further,  it  is  the 
language  of  men  who  speak  of  what  they  do  not  understand ;  who 
talk  of  Poetry  as  of  a  matter  of  amusement  and  idle  pleasure ; 
who  will  converse  with  us  as  gravely  about  a  taste  for  Poetry,  as 
they  express  it,  as  if  it  were  a  thing  as  indifferent  as  a  taste  for 
rope-dancing,  or  Frontiniac  or  Sherry.  Aristotle,  I  have  been  told, 
has  said,  that  Poetry  is  the  most  philosophic  of  all  writing :  it  is 
so :  its  object  is  truth,  not  individual  and  local,  but  general,  and 
operative ;  not  standing  upon  external  testimony,  but  carried  alive 
into  the  heart  by  passion ;  truth  which  is  its  own  testimony,  which 
gives  competence  and  confidence  to  the  tribunal  to  which  it  appeals, 
and  receives  them  from  the  same  tribunal.  Poetry  is  the  image  of 
man  and  nature.  The  obstacles  which  stand  in  the  way  of  the  fidelity 
of  the  Biographer  and  Historian,  and  of  their  consequent  utility,  are 
incalculably  greater  than  those  which  are  to  be  encountered  by  the 
Poet  who  comprehends  the  dignity  of  his  art.  The  Poet  writes 
under  one  restriction  only,  namely,  the  necessity  of  giving  immedi- 
ate pleasure  to  a  human  being  possessed  of  that  information 
which  may  be  expected  from  him,  not  as  a  lawyer,  a  physician,  a 
mariner,  an  astronomer,  or  a  natural  philosopher,  but  as  a*  Man. 
Except  this  one  restriction,  there  is  no  object  standing  between 
the  Poet  and  the  image  of  things  ;  between  this,  and  the  Biographer 
and  Historian,  there  are  a  thousand. 

Nor  let  this  necessity  of  producing  immediate  pleasure  be  con- 
sidered as  a  degradation  of  the  Poet's  art.  It  is  far  otherwise.  It 
is  an  acknowledgment  of  the  beauty  of  the  universe,  an  acknow- 
ledgment the  more  sincere,  because  not  formal,  but  indirect ;  it  is 
a  task  light  and  easy  to  him  who  looks  at  the  world  in  the  spirit 
of  love :  further,  it  is  a  homage  paid  to  the  native  and  naked 
dignity  of  man,  to  the  grand  elementary  principle  of  pleasure,  by 
which  he  knows,  and  feels,  and  lives,  and  moves.  We  have  no 
sympathy  but  what  is  propagated  by  pleasure  :  I  would  not  be  mis- 
understood; but  wherever  we  sympathize  with  pain,  it  will  be 
found  that  the  sympathy  is  produced  and  carried  on  by  subtle 
combinations  with  pleasure.  We  have  no  knowledge,  that  is,  no 


274     WORDSWORTH  ON  POETRY  AND  POETIC  DICTION 

general  principles  drawn  from  the  contemplation  of  particular 
facts,  but  what  has  been  built  up  by  pleasure,  and  exists  in  us 
by  pleasure  alone.  The  Man  of  Science,  the  Chemist  and  Mathe- 
matician, whatever  difficulties  and  disgusts  they  may  have  had  to 
struggle  with,  know  and  feel  this.  However  painful  may  be  the 
objects  with  which  the  Anatomist's  knowledge  is  connected,  he 
feels  that  his  knowledge  is  pleasure ;  and  where  he  has  no  pleasure 
he  has  no  knowledge.  What  then  does  the  Poet?  He  considers 
man  and  the  objects  that  surround  him  as  acting  and  reacting  upon 
each  other,  so  as  to  produce  an  infinite  complexity  of  pain  and 
pleasure ;  he  considers  man  in  his  own  nature  and  in  his  ordinary 
life  as  contemplating  this  with  a  certain  quantity  of  immediate 
knowledge,  with  certain  convictions,  intuitions,  and  deductions, 
which  from  habit  acquire  the  quality  of  intuitions  ;  he  considers 
him  as  looking  upon  this  complex  scene  of  ideas  and  sensations, 
and  finding  everywhere  objects  that  immediately  excite  in  him 
sympathies  which,  from  the  necessities  of  his  nature,  are  accom- 
panied by  an  overbalance  of  enjoyment. 

To  this  knowledge  which  all  men  carry  about  with  them,  and  to 
these  sympathies  in  which,  without  any  other  discipline  than  that 
of  our  daily  life,  we  are  fitted  to  take  delight,  the  Poet  principally 
direct's  his  attention.  He  considers  man  and  nature  as  essentially 
adapted  to  each  other,  and  the  mind  of  man  as  naturally  the  mirror 
of  the  fairest  and  most  interesting  properties  of  nature.  And  thus 
the  Poet,  prompted  by  this  feeling  of  pleasure,  which  accompanies 
him  through  the  whole  course  of  his  studies,  converses  with  general 
nature,  with  affections  akin  to  those,  which,  through  labour  and 
length  of  time,  the  Man  of  Science  has  raised  up  in  himself,  by  con- 
versing with  those  particular  parts  of  nature  which  are  the  objects 
of  his  studies.  The  knowledge  both  of  the  Poet  and  the  Man  of 
Science  is  pleasure ;  but  the  knowledge  of  the  one  cleaves  to  us 
as  a  necessary  part  of  our  existence,  our  natural  and  unalienable 
inheritance;  the  other  is  a  personal  and  individual  acquisition, 
slow  to  come  to  us,  and  by  no  habitual  and  direct  sympathy  con- 
necting us  with  our  fellow-beings.  The  Man  of  Science  seeks  truth 
as  a  remote  and  unknown  benefactor ;  he  cherishes  and  loves  it  in 
his  solitude :  the  Poet,  singing  a  song  in  which  all  human  beings 


PREFACE  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS  275 

join  with  him,  rejoices  in  the  presence  of  truth  as  our  visible  friend 
and  hourly  companion.  Poetry  is  the  breath  and  finer  spirit  of  all 
knowledge ;  it  is  the  impassioned  expression  which  is  in  the  coun- 
tenance of  all  science.  Emphatically  may  it  be  said  of  the  poet, 
as  Shakespeare  hath  said  of  man,  "  that  he  looks  before  and  after." 
He  is  the  rock  of  defence  for  human  nature ;  an  upholder  and  pre- 
server, carrying  everywhere  with  him  relationship  and  love.  In 
spite  of  difference  of  soil  and  climate,  of  language  and  manners,  of 
laws  and  customs :  in  spite  of  things  silently  gone  out  of  mind, 
and  things  violently  destroyed ;  the  Poet  binds  together  by  passion 
and  knowledge  the  vast  empire  of  human  society,  as  it  is  spread 
over  the  whole  earth,  and  over  all  time.  The  objects  of  the  Poet's 
thoughts  are  everywhere ;  though  the  eyes  and  senses  of  men  are, 
it  is  true,  his  favourite  guides,  yet  he  will  follow  wheresoever  he 
can  find  an  atmosphere  of  sensation  in  which  to  move  his  wings. 
Poetry  is  the  first  and  last  of  all  knowledge  —  it  is  as  immortal  as 
the  heart  of  man.  If  the  labours  of  Men  of  Science  should  ever 
create  any  material  revolution,  direct  or  indirect,  in  our  condition, 
and  in  the  impressions  which  we  habitually  receive,  the  Poet  will 
sleep  then  no  more  than  at  present ;  he  will  be  ready  to  follow 
the  steps  of  the  man  of  science,  not  only  in  those  general  indirect 
effects,  but  he  will  be  at  his  side,  carrying  sensation  into  the  midst 
of  the  objects  of  the  science  itself.  The  remotest  discoveries  of  the 
Chemist,  the  Botanist,  or  Mineralogist,  will  be  as  proper  objects  of 
the  Poet's  art  as  any  upon  which  it  can  be  employed,  if  the  time 
should  ever  come  when  these  things  shall  be  familiar  to  us,  and  the 
relations  under  which  they  are  contemplated  by  the  followers  of 
these  respective  sciences  shall  be  manifestly  and  palpably  material 
to  us  as  enjoying  and  suffering  beings.  If  the  time  should  ever 
come  when  what  is  now  called  science,  thus  familiarized  to  men, 
shall  be  ready  to  put  on,  as  it  were,  a  form  of  flesh  and  blood,  the 
Poet  will  lend  his  divine  spirit  to  aid  the  transfiguration,  and  will 
welcome  the  Being  thus  produced,  as  a  dear  and  genuine  inmate  of 
the  household  of  man.  It  is  not,  then,  to  be  supposed  that  any  one, 
who  holds  that  sublime  notion  of  Poetry  which  I  have  attempted  to 
convey,  will  break  in  upon  the  sanctity  and  truth  of  his  pictures 
by  transitory  and  accidental  ornaments,  and  endeavour  to  excite 


276      WORDSWORTH  ON  POETRY  AND  POETIC  DICTION 

admiration  of  himself  by  arts,  the  necessity  of  which  must  mani- 
festly depend  upon  the  assumed  meanness  of  his  subject. 

What  has  been  thus  far  said  applies  to  Poetry  in  general ;  but 
especially  to  those  parts  of  composition  where  the  Poet  speaks 
through  the  mouths  of  his  characters ;  and  upon  this  point  it 
appears  to  authorize  the  conclusion  that  there  are  few  persons  of 
good  sense,  who  would  not  allow  that  the  dramatic  parts  of  com- 
position are  defective,  in  proportion  as  they  deviate  from  the  real 
language  of  nature,  and  are  coloured  by  a  diction  of  the  Poet's 
own,  either  peculiar  to  him  as  an  individual  Poet  or  belonging 
simply  to  Poets  in  general ;  to  a  body  of  men  who,  from  the  cir- 
cumstance of  their  composition  being  in  metre,  it  is  expected  will 
employ  a  particular  language. 

It  is  not,  then,  in  the  dramatic  parts  of  composition  that  we  look 
for  this  distinction  of  language;  but  still  it  may  be  proper  and 
necessary  where  the  Poet  speaks  to  us  in  his  own  person  and 
character.  To  this  I  answer  by  referring  the  reader  to  the  descrip- 
tion before  given  of  a  Poet.  Among  the  qualities  there  enumerated 
as  principally  conducing  to  form  a  Poet,  is  implied  nothing  differ- 
ing in  kind  from  other  men,  but  only  in  degree.  The  sum  of  what 
was  said  is,  that  the  Poet  is  chiefly  distinguished  from  other  men 
by  a  greater  promptness  to  think  and  feel  without  immediate 
external  excitement,  and  a  greater  power  in  expressing  such 
thoughts  and  feelings  as  are  produced  in  him  in  that  manner.  But 
these  passions  and  thoughts  and  feelings  are  the  general  passions 
and  thoughts  and  feelings  of  men.  And  with  what  are  they  con- 
nected? Undoubtedly  with  our  moral  sentiments  and  animal  sensa- 
tions, and  with  the  causes  which  excite  these;  with  the  operations 
of  the  elements,  and  the  appearances  of  the  visible  universe ;  with 
storm  and  sunshine,  with  the  revolutions  of  the  seasons,  with  cold 
and  heat,  with  loss  of  friends  and  kindred,  with  injuries  and 
resentments,  gratitude  and  hope,  with  fear  and  sorrow.  These,  and 
the  like,  are  the  sensations  and  objects  which  the  Poet  describes, 
as  they  are  the  sensations  of  other  men,  and  the  objects  which 
interest  them.  The  Poet  thinks  and  feels  in  the  spirit  of  human 
passions.  How,  then,  can  his  language  differ  in  any  material 
degree  from  that  of  all  other  men  who  feel  vividly  and  see  clearly  ? 


PREFACE  TO   LYRICAL   BALLADS  277 

It  might  be  proved  that  it  is  impossible.  But  supposing  that  this 
were  not  the  case,  the  Poet  might  then  be  allowed  to  use  a  peculiar 
language  when  expressing  his  feelings  for  his  own  gratification,  or 
that  of  men  like  himself.  But  Poets  do  not  write  for  Poets  alone, 
but  for  men.  Unless  therefore  we  are  advocates  for  that  admira- 
tion which  subsists  upon  ignorance,  and  that  pleasure  which  arises 
from  hearing  what  we  do  not  understand,  the  Poet  must  descend 
from  this  supposed  height ;  and,  in  order  to  excite  rational  sym- 
pathy, he  must  express  himself  as  other  men  express  themselves. 
To  this  it  may  be  added,  that  while  he  is  only  selecting  from  the 
real  language  of  men,  or,  which  amounts  to  the  same  thing,  com- 
posing accurately  in  the  spirit  of  such  selection,  he  is  treading 
upon  safe  ground,  and  we  know  what  we  are  to  expect  from  him. 
Our  feelings  are  the  same  with  respect  to  metre ;  for,  as  it  may  be 
proper  to  remind  the  reader,  the  distinction  of  metre  is  regular 
and  uniform,  and  not,  like  that  which  is  produced  by  what  is  usually 
called  POETIC  DICTION,  arbitrary,  and  subject  to  infinite  caprices 
upon  which  no  calculation  whatever  can  be  made.  In  the  one  case, 
the  reader  is  utterly  at  the  mercy  of  the  poet,  respecting  what 
imagery  or  diction  he  may  choose  to  connect  with  the  passion ; 
whereas,  in  the  other,  the  metre  obeys  certain  laws,  to  which  the 
poet  and  reader  both  willingly  submit  because  they  are  certain, 
and  because  no  interference  is  made  by  them  with  the  passion  but 
such  as  the  concurring  testimony  of  ages  has  shown  to  heighten 
and  improve  the  pleasure  which  coexists  with  it. 

It  will  now  be  proper  to  answer  an  obvious  question,  namely, 
Why,  professing  these  opinions,  have  I  written  in  verse?  To  this, 
in  addition  to  such  answer  as  is  included  in  what  has  been  already 
said,  I  reply,  in  the  first  place,  Because,  however  I  may  have 
restricted  myself,  there  is  still  left  open  to  me  what  confessedly 
constitutes  the  most  valuable  object  of  all  writing,  whether  in 
prose  or  verse ;  the  great  and  universal  passions  of  men,  the  most 
general  and  interesting  of  their  occupations,  and  the  entire  world 
of  nature  before  me  —  to  supply  endless  combinations  of  forms 
and  imagery.  Now,  supposing  for  a  moment  that  whatever  is 
interesting  in  these  objects  may  be  as  vividly  described  in  prose, 
why  should  I  be  condemned  for  attempting  to  superadd  to  such 


278     WORDSWORTH  ON  POETRY  AND  POETIC  DICTION 

description,  the  charm  which,  by  the  consent  of  all  nations,  is 
acknowledged  to  exist  in  metrical  language  ?  To  this,  by  such  as 
are  yet  unconvinced,  it  may  be  answered  that  a  very  small  part  of 
the  pleasure  given  by  poetry  depends  upon  the  metre,  and  that  it 
is  injudicious  to  write  in  metre,  unless  it  be  accompanied  with  the 
other  artificial  distinctions  of  style  with  which  metre  is  usually 
accompanied,  and  that,  by  such  deviation,  more  will  be  lost  from 
the  shock  which  will  thereby  be  given  to  the  reader's  associations 
than  will  be  counterbalanced  by  any  pleasure  which  he  can  derive 
from  the  general  power  of  numbers.  In  answer  to  those  who  still 
contend  for  the  necessity  of  accompanying  metre  with  certain 
appropriate  colours  of  style  in  order  to  the  accomplishment  of  its 
appropriate  end,  and  who  also,  in  my  opinion,  greatly  underrate 
the  power  of  metre  in  itself,  it  might,  perhaps,  as  far  as  relates  to 
these  volumes,  have  been  almost  sufficient  to  observe,  that  poems 
are  extant,  written  upon  more  humble  subjects,  and  in  a  still  more 
naked  and  simple  style,  which  have  continued  to  give  pleasure 
from  generation  to  generation.  Now,  if  nakedness  and  simplicity 
be  a  defect,  the  fact  here  mentioned  affords  a  strong  presumption 
that  poems  somewhat  less  naked  and  simple  are  capable  of  affording 
pleasure  at  the  present  day ;  and,  what  I  wished  chiefly  to  attempt, 
at  present,  was  to  justify  myself  for  having  written  under  the 
impression  of  this  belief. 

But  various  causes  might  be  pointed  out  why,  when  the  style 
is  manly,  and  the  subject  of  some  importance,  words  metrically 
arranged  will  long  continue  to  impart  such  a  pleasure  to  mankind 
as  he  who  proves  the  extent  of  that  pleasure  will  be  desirous  to 
impart.  The  end  of  Poetry  is  to  produce  excitement  in  coexistence 
with  an  overbalance  of  pleasure ;  but,  by  the  supposition,  excite- 
ment is  an  unusual  and  irregular  state  of  the  mind;  ideas  and 
feelings  do  not,  in  that  state,  succeed  each  other  in  accustomed 
order.  If  the  words,  however,  by  which  this  excitement  is  pro- 
duced be  in  themselves  powerful,  or  the  images  and  feelings  have 
an  undue  proportion  of  pain  connected  with  them,  there  is  some 
danger  that  the  excitement  may  be  carried  beyond  its  proper 
bounds.  Now  the  co-presence  of  something  regular,  something  to 
which  the  mind  has  been  accustomed  in  various  moods  and  in  a 


PREFACE  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS  279 

less  excited  state,  cannot  but  have  great  efficacy  in  tempering  and 
restraining  the  passion  by  an  intertexture  of  ordinary  feeling,  and 
of  feeling  not  strictly  and  necessarily  connected  with  the  passion. 
This  is  unquestionably  true ;  and  hence,  though  the  opinion  will  at 
first  appear  paradoxical,  from  the  tendency  of  metre  to  divest 
language,  in  a  certain  degree,  of  its  reality,  and  thus  to  throw  a 
sort  of  half-consciousness  of  unsubstantial  existence  over  the  whole 
composition,  there  can  be  little  doubt  but  that  more  pathetic 
situations  and  sentiments,  that  is,  those  which  have  a  greater  pro- 
portion of  pain  connected  with  them,  may  be  endured  in  metrical 
composition,  especially  in  rhyme,  than  in  prose.  The  metre  of  the 
old  ballads  is  very  artless ;  yet  they  contain  many  passages  which 
would  illustrate  this  opinion  ;  and,. I  hope,  if  the  following  Poems 
be  attentively  perused,  similar  instances  will  be  found  in  them. 
This  opinion  may  be  further  illustrated  by  appealing  to  the  reader's 
own  experience  of  the  reluctance  with  which  he  comes  to  the 
reperusal  of  the  distressful  parts  of  Clarissa  JTarlowe,  or  the 
Gamester;  while  Shakespeare's  writings,  in  the  most  pathetic 
scenes,  never  act  upon  us,  as  pathetic,  beyond  the  bounds  of  pleasure 
—  an  effect  which,  in  a  much  greater  degree  than  might  at  first  be 
imagined,  is  to  be  ascribed  to  small,  but  continual  and  regular 
impulses  of  pleasurable  surprise  from  the  metrical  arrangement. — 
On  the  other  hand  (what  it  must  be  allowed  will  much  more  fre- 
quently happen)  if  the  poet's  words  should  be  incommensurate 
with  the  passion,  and  inadequate  to  raise  the  reader  to  a  height  of 
desirable  excitement,  then,  (unless  the  poet's  choice  of  his  metre 
has  been  grossly  injudicious)  in  the  feelings  of  pleasure  which  the 
reader  has  been  accustomed  to  connect  with  metre  in  general,  and 
in  the  feeling,  whether  cheerful  or  melancholy,  which  he  has  been 
accustomed  to  connect  with  that  particular  movement  of  metre, 
there  will  be  found  something  which  will  greatly  contribute  to 
impart  passion  to  the  words,  and  to  effect  the  complex  end  which 
the  poet  proposes  to  himself. 

If  I  had  undertaken  a  SYSTEMATIC  defence  of  the  theory  here 
maintained,  it  would  have  been  my  duty  to  develop  the  various 
causes  upon  which  the  pleasure  received  from  metrical  language 
depends.  Among  the  chief  of  these  causes  is  to  be  reckoned  a 


280     WORDSWORTH  OX  POETRY  AND  POETIC  DICTION 

principle  which  must  be  well  known  to  those  who  have  made  any 
of  the  Arts  the  object  of  accurate  reflection ;  namely,  the  pleasure 
which  the  mind  derives  from  the  perception  of  similitude  in  dis- 
similitude. This  principle  is  the  great  spring  of  the  activity  of 
our  minds,  and  their  chief  feeder.  From  this  principle  the  direc- 
tion of  the  sexual  appetite,  and  all  the  passions  connected  with  it, 
take  their  origin :  it  is  the  life  of  our  ordinary  conversation ;  and 
upon  the  accuracy  with  which  similitude  in  dissimilitude,  and  dis- 
similitude in  similitude,  are  perceived,  depend  our  taste  and  our 
moral  feelings.  It  would  not  be  a  useless  employment  to  apply 
this  principle  to  the  consideration  of  metre,  and  to  show  that  metre 
is  hence  enabled  to  afford  much  pleasure,  and  to  point  out  in  what 
manner  that  pleasure  is  produced.  But  my  limits  will  not  permit 
me  to  enter  upon  this  subject,  and  I  must  content  myself  with  a 
general  summary. 

I  have  said  that  poetry  is  the  spontaneous  overflow  of  powerful 
feelings  :  it  takes  its  origin  from  emotion  recollected  in  tranquill- 
ity :  the  emotion  is  contemplated  till,  by  a  species  of  reaction,  the 
tranquillity  gradually  disappears,  and  an  emotion,  kindred  to  that 
which  was  before  the  subject  of  contemplation,  is  gradually  pro- 
duced, and  does  itself  actually  exist  in  the  mind.  In  this  mood 
successful  composition  generally  begins,  and  in  a  mood  similar  to 
this  it  is  carried  on ;  but  the  emotion,  of  whatever  kind, '  and  in 
whatever  degree,  from  various  causes,  is  qualified  by  various 
pleasures,  so  that  in  describing  any  passions  whatsoever,  which  are 
voluntarily  described,  the  mind  will,  upon  the  whole,  be  in  a  state 
of  enjoyment.  If  Nature  be  thus  cautious  to  preserve  in  a  state  of 
enjoyment  a  being  so  employed,  the  Poet  ought  to  profit  by  the 
lesson  held  forth  to  him,  and  ought  especially  to  take  care,  that, 
whatever  passions  he  communicates  to  his  reader,  those  passions, 
if  his  reader's  mind  be  sound  and  vigorous,  should  always  be 
accompanied  with  an  overbalance  of  pleasure.  Now  the  music  of 
harmonious  metrical  language,  the  sense  of  difficulty  overcome,  and 
the  blind  association  of  pleasure  which  has  been  previously  received 
from  works  of  rhyme  or  metre  of  the  same  or  similar  construction, 
an  indistinct  perception  perpetually  renewed  of  language  closely 
resembling  that  of  real  life,  and  yet,  in  the  circumstance  of  metre, 


PREFACE   TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS  281 

differing  from  it  so  widely  —  all  these  imperceptibly  make  up  a 
complex  feeling  of  delight,  which  is  of  the  most  important  use  in 
tempering  the  painful  feeling  always  found  intermingled  with 
powerful  descriptions  of  the  deeper  passions.  This  effect  is 
always  produced  in  pathetic  and  impassioned  poetry;  while,  in 
lighter  compositions,  the  ease  and  gracefulness  with  which  the  poet 
manages  his  numbers  are  themselves  confessedly  a  principal  source 
of  the  gratification  of  the  reader.  All  that  it  is  necessary  to  say, 
however,  upon  this  subject,  may  be  effected  by  affirming,  what  few 
persons  will  deny,  that,  of  two  descriptions,  either  of  passions, 
manners,  or  characters,  each  of  them  equally  well  executed,  the  one 
in  prose  and  the  other  in  verse,  the  verse  will  be  read  a  hundred 
times  where  the  prose  is  read  once. 

Having  thus  explained  a  few  of  my  reasons  for  writing  in  verse, 
and  why  I  have  chosen  subjects  from  common  life,  and  endeavoured 
to  bring  my  language  near  to  the  real  language  of  men,  if  I  have 
been  too  minute  in  pleading  my  own  cause,  I  have  at  the  same  time 
been  treating  a  subject  of  general  interest ;  and  for  this  reason  a 
few  words  shall  be  added  with  reference  solely  to  these  particular 
poems,  and  to  some  defects  which  will  probably  be  found  in  them. 
I  am  sensible  that  my  associations  must  have  sometimes  been  parti- 
cular instead  of  general,  and  that,  consequently,  giving  to  things 
a  false  importance,  I  may  have  sometimes  written  upon  unworthy 
subjects  ;  but  I  am  less  apprehensive  on  this  account,  than  that  my 
language  may  frequently  have  suffered  from  those  arbitrary  con- 
nections of  feelings  and  ideas  with  particular  words  and  phrases, 
from  which  no  man  can  altogether  protect  himself.  Hence  I  have 
no  doubt  that,  in  some  instances,  feelings,  even  of  the  ludicrous, 
may  be  given  to  my  readers  by  expressions  which  appeared  to  me 
tender  and  pathetic.  Such  faulty  expressions,  were  I  convinced 
they  were  faulty  at  present,  and  that  they  must  necessarily  con- 
tinue to  be  so,  I  would  willingly  take  all  reasonable  pains  to  cor- 
rect. But  it  is  dangerous  to  make  these  alterations  on  the  simple 
authority  of  a  few  individuals,  or  even  of  certain  classes  of  men ;  for 
where  the  understanding  of  an  author  is  not  convinced,  or  his  feel- 
ings altered,  this  cannot  be  done  without  great  injury  to  himself : 
for  his  own  feelings  are  his  stay  and  support ;  and,  if  he  set  them 


282     WORDSAVORTH  ON  POETRY  AND  POETIC  DICTION 

aside  in  one  instance,  he  may  be  induced  to  repeat  this  act  till  his 
mind  shall  lose  all  confidence  in  itself,  and  become  utterly  debil- 
itated. To  this  it  may  be  added,  that  the  critic  ought  never  to 
forget  that  he  is  himself  exposed  to  the  same  errors  as  the  poet, 
and,  perhaps,  in  a  much  greater  degree  :  for  there  can  be  no  pre- 
sumption in  saying  of  most  readers,  that  it  is  not  probable  they 
will  be  so  well  acquainted  with  the  various  stages  of  meaning 
through  which  words  have  passed,  or  with  the  fickleness  or  stability 
of  the  relations  of  particular  ideas  to  each  other ;  and,  above  all, 
since  they  are  so  much  less  interested  in  the  subject,  they  may 
decide  lightly  and  carelessly. 

Long  as  the  reader  has  been  detained,  I  hope  he  will  permit  me 
to  caution  him  against  a  mode  of  false  criticism  which  has  been 
applied  to  poetry,  in  which  the  language  closely  resembles  that  of 
life  and  nature.  Such  verses  have  been  triumphed  over  in  parodies, 
of  which  Dr.  Johnson's  stanza  is  a  fair  specimen : 

I  put  my  hat  upon  my  head 

And  walked  into  the  Strand, 
And  there  I  met  another  man 

Whose  hat  was  in  his  hand. 

Immediately  under  these  lines  let  us  place  one  of  the  most  justly- 
admired  stanzas  of  the  Babes  in  the  Wood. 

These  pretty  Babes  with  hand  in  hand 

Went  wandering  up  and  down  ; 
But  never  more  they  saw  the  Man 

Approaching  from  the  Town. 

In  both  these  stanzas  the  words,  and  the  order  of  the  words,  in 
no  respect  differ  from  the  most  unimpassioned  conversation.  There 
are  words  in  both,  for  example,  "the  Strand,"  and  "the  Town," 
connected  with  none  but  the  most  familiar  ideas  ;  yet  the  one  stanza 
we  admit  as  admirable,  and  the  other  as  a  fair  example  of  the  super- 
latively contemptible.  Whence  arises  this  difference  ?  Not  from 
the  metre,  not  from  the  language,  not  from  the  order  of  the  words ; 
but  the  matter  expressed  in  Dr.  Johnson's  stanza  is  contemptible. 
The  proper  method  of  treating  trivial  and  simple  verses,  to  which 
Dr.  Johnson's  stanza  would  be  a  fair,  parallelism,  is  not  to  say,  this 


PREFACE   TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS  283 

is  a  bad  kind  of  poetry,  or,  this  is  not  poetry  ;  but,  this  wants  sense ; 
it  is  neither  interesting  in  itself,  nor  can  lead  to  any  thing  interest- 
ing ;  the  images  neither  originate  in  that  sane  state  of  feeling  which 
arises  out  of  thought,  nor  can  excite  thought  or  feeling  in  the  reader. 
This  is  the  only  sensible  manner  of  dealing  with  such  verses.  Why 
trouble  yourself  about  the  species  till  you  have  previously  decided 
upon  the  genus  ?  Why  take  pains  to  prove  that  an  ape  is  not  a 
Newton,  when  it  is  self-evident  that  he  is  not  a  man  ? 

One  request  I  must  make  of  my  reader,  which  is,  that  in  judging 
these  Poems  he  would  decide  by  his  own  feelings  genuinely,  and  not 
by  reflection  upon  what  will  probably  be  the  judgment  of  others. 
How  common  is  it  to  hear  a  person  say,  I  myself  do  not  object  to 
this  style  of  composition,  or  this  or  that  expression,  but,  to  such  and 
such  classes  of  people  it  will  appear  mean  or  ludicrous  !  This  mode 
of  criticism,  so  destructive  of  all  sound  unadulterated  judgment,  is 
almost  universal :  let  the  reader  then  abide,  independently,  by  his 
own  feelings,  and,  if  he  finds  himself  affected,  let  him  not  suffer 
such  conjectures  to  interfere  with  his  pleasure. 

If  an  author,  by  any  single  composition,  has  impressed  us  with 
respect  for  his  talents,  it  is  useful  to  consider  this  as  affording  a 
presumption,  that  on  other  occasions  where  we  have  been  displeased, 
he,  nevertheless,  may  not  have  written  ill  or  absurdly ;  and  further, 
to  give  him  so  much  credit  for  this  one  composition  as  may  induce 
us  to  review  what  has  displeased  us,  with  more  care  than  we  should 
otherwise  have  bestowed  upon  it.  This  is  not  only  an  act  of  justice, 
but,  in  our  decisions  upon  poetry  especially,  may  conduce,  in  a  high 
degree,  to  the  improvement  of  our  own  taste  :  for  an  accurate  taste 
in  poetry,  and  in  all  the  other  arts,  as  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  has 
observed,  is  an  acquired  talent,  which  can  only  be  produced  by 
thought  and  a  long-continued  intercourse  with  the  best  models  of 
composition.  This  is  mentioned,  not  with  so  ridiculous  a  pur- 
pose as  to  prevent  the  most  inexperienced  reader  from  judging  for 
himself,  (I  have  already  said  that  I  wish  him  to  judge  for  him- 
self ;)  but  merely  to  temper  the  rashness  of  decision,  and  to  sug- 
gest that,  if  poetry  be  a  subject  on  which  much  time  has  not  been 
bestowed,  the  judgment  may  be  erroneous  ;  and  that,  in  many  cases, 
it  necessarily  will  be  so. 


284     WORDSWORTH  ON  POETRY  AND  POETIC  DICTION 

Nothing  would,  I  know,  have  so  effectually  contributed  to  further 
the  end  which  I  have  in  view,  as  to  have  shown  of  what  kind  the 
pleasure  is,  and  how  that  pleasure  is  produced,  which  is  confessedly 
produced  by  metrical  composition  essentially  different  from  that 
which  I  have  here  endeavoured  to  recommend  :  for  the  reader  will 
say  that  he  has  been  pleased  by  such  composition  ;  and  what  more 
can  be  done  for  him  ?  The  power  of  any  art  is  limited  ;  and  he 
will  suspect,  that,  if  it  be  proposed  to  furnish  him  with  new  friends, 
that  can  be  only  upon  condition  of  his  abandoning  his  old  friends. 
Besides,  as  I  have  said,  the  reader  is  himself  conscious  of  the  pleas- 
ure which  -he  has  received  from  such  composition,  composition  to 
which  he  has  peculiarly  attached  the  endearing  name  of  Poetry ; 
and  all  men  feel  an  habitual  gratitude,  and  something  of  an  honour- 
able bigotry,  for  the  objects  which  have  long  continued  to  please 
them  :  we  not  only  wish  to  be  pleased,  but  to  be  pleased  in  that 
particular  way  in  which  we  have  been  accustomed  to  be  pleased. 
There  is  in  these  feelings  enough  to  resist  a  host  of  arguments ; 
and  I  should  be  the  less  able  to  combat  them  successfully,  as  I  am 
willing  to  allow,  that,  in  order  entirely  to  enjoy  the  poetry  which  I 
am  recommending,  it  would  be  necessary  to  give  up  much  of  what 
is  ordinarily  enjoyed.  But,  would  my  limits  have  permitted  me  to 
point  out  how  this  pleasure  is  produced,  many  obstacles  might  have 
been  removed,  and  the  reader  assisted  in  perceiving  that  the  powers 
of  language  are  not  so  limited  as  he  may  suppose  ;  and  that  it  is 
possible  for  poetry  to  give  other  enjoyments,  of  a  purer,  more  last- 
ing, and  more  exquisite  nature.  '  This  part  of  the  subject  has  not 
been  altogether  neglected,  but  it  has  not  been  so  much  my  present 
aim  to  prove,  that  the  interest  excited  by  some  other  kinds  of  poetry 
is  less  vivid,  and  less  worthy  of  the  nobler  powers  of  the  mind,  as 
to  offer  reasons  for  presuming,  that  if  my  purpose  were  fulfilled, 
a  species  of  poetry  would  be  produced,  which  is  genuine  poetry ; 
in  its  nature  well  adapted  to  interest  mankind  permanently,  and 
likewise  important  in  the  multiplicity  and  quality  of  its  moral 
relations. 

From  what  has  been  said,  and  from  a  perusal  of  the  Poems,  the 
reader  will  be  able  clearly  to  perceive  the  object  which  I  had  in 
view  :  he  will  determine  how  far  it  has  been  attained ;  and,  what  is 


APPENDIX  TO  PREFACE  285 

a  much  more  important  question,  whether  it  be  worth  attaining: 
and  upon  the  decision  of  these  two  questions  will  rest  my  claim  to 
the  approbation  of  the  public. 

2.     APPENDIX  TO  PREFACE 

See  page  267  —  "what  is  usually  called'pOETic  DICTION." 

Perhaps,  as  I  have  no  right  to  expect  that  attentive  perusal,  with- 
out which,  confined,  as  I  have  been,  to  the  narrow  limits  of  a  preface, 
my  meaning  cannot  be  thoroughly  understood,  I  am  anxious  to  give 
an  exact  notion  of  the  sense  in  which  the  phrase  poetic  diction  has 
been  used  ;  and  for  this  purpose,  a  few  words  shall  here  be  added, 
concerning  the  origin  and  characteristics  of  the  phraseology,  which 
I  have  condemned  under  that  name. 

The  earliest  poets  of  all  nations  generally  wrote  from  passion 
excited  by  real  events ;  they  wrote  naturally,  and  as  men :  feeling 
powerfully  as  they  did,  their  language  was  daring,  and  figurative. 
In  succeeding  times,  poets,  and  men  ambitious  of  the  fame  of  poets, 
perceiving  the  influence  of  such  language,  and  desirous  of  producing 
the  same  effect  without  being  animated  by  the  same  passion,  set 
themselves  to  a  mechanical  adoption  of  these,  figures  of  speech,  and 
made  use  of  them,  sometimes  with  propriety,  but  much  more  fre- 
quently applied  them  to  feelings  and  thoughts  with  which  they  had 
no  natural  connection  whatsoever.  A  language  was  thus  insensibly 
produced,  differing  materially  from  the  real  language  of  men  in  any 
situation.  The  reader  or  hearer  of  this  distorted  language  found 
himself  in  a  perturbed  and  unusual  state  of  mind  :  when  affected  by 
the  genuine  language  of  passion  he  had  been  in  a  perturbed  and 
unusual  state  of  mind  also :  in  both  cases  he  was  willing  that  his 
common  judgment  and  understanding  should  be  laid  asleep,  and  fee 
had  no  instinctive  and  infallible  perception  of  the  true  to  make 
him  reject  the  false  ;  the  one  served  as  a  passport  for  the  other. 
The  emotion  was  in  both  cases  delightful,  and  no  wonder  if  he  con- 
founded the  one  with  the  other,  and  believed  them  both  to  be  pro- 
duced by  the  same,  or  similar  causes.  Besides,  the  poet  spake  to 
him  in  the  character  of  a  man  to  be  looked  up  to,  a  man  of  genius 
and  authority.  Thus,  and  from  a  variety  of  other  causes,  this 


286     WORDSWORTH  ON  POETRY  AND  POETIC  DICTION 

distorted  language  was  received  with  admiration  ;  and  poets,  it  is 
probable,  who  had  before  contented  themselves  for  the  most  part 
with  misapplying  only  expressions  which  at  first  had  been  dictated 
by  real  passion,  carried  the  abuse  still  further,  and  introduced 
phrases  composed  apparently  in  the  spirit  of  the  original  figurative 
language  of  passion,  yet  altogether  of  their  own  invention,  and 
characterized  by  various  degrees  of  wanton  deviation  from  good 
sense  and  nature. 

It  is  indeed  true,  that  the  language  of  the  earliest  poets  was  felt 
to  differ  materially  from  ordinary  language,  because  it  was  the 
language  of  extraordinary  occasions ;  but  it  was  really  spoken  by 
men,  language  which  the  poet  himself  had  uttered  when  he  had 
been  affected  by  the  events  which  he  described,  or  which  he  had 
heard  uttered  by  those  around  him.  To  this  language  it  is  probable 
that  metre  of  some  sort  or  other  was  early  superadded.  This  sepa- 
rated the  genuine  language  «f  Poetry  still  further  from  common  life, 
so  that  whoever  read  or  heard  the  poems  of  these  earliest  poets  felt 
himself  moved  in  a  way  in  which  he  had  not  been  accustomed  to 
be  moved  in  real  life,  and  by  causes  manifestly  different  from  those 
which  acted  upon  him  in  real  life.  This  was  the  great  temptation 
to  all  the  corruptions  which  have  followed :  under  the  protection  of 
this  feeling  succeeding  poets  constructed  a  phraseology  which  had 
one  thing,  it  is  true,  in  common  with  the  genuine  language  of  poetry, 
namely,  that  it  was  not  heard  in  ordinary  conversation  ;  that  it  was 
unusual.  But  the  first  poets,  as  I  have  said,  spake  a  language  which, 
though  unusual,  was  still  the  language  of  men.  This  circumstance, 
however,  was  disregarded  by  their  successors ;  they  found  that  they 
could  please  by  easier  means  :  they  became  proud  of  modes  of  expres- 
sion which  they  themselves  had  invented,  and  which  were  uttered 
only  by  themselves.  In  process  of  time  metre  became  a  symbol  or 
promise  of  this  unusual  language,  and  whoever  took  upon  him  to 
write  in  metre,  according  as  he  possessed  more  or  less  of  true  poetic 
genius,  introduced  less  or  more  of  this  adulterated  phraseology  into 
his  compositions,  and  the  true  and  the  false  were  inseparably  inter- 
woven until,  the  taste  of  men  becoming  gradually  perverted,  this 
language  was  received  as  a  natural  language :  and  at  length,  by  the 
influence  of  books  upon  men,  did  to  a  certain  degree  really  become  so. 


APPENDIX  TO  PREFACE  287 

% 

Abuses  of  this  kind  were  imported  from  one  nation  to  another,  and 
with  the  progress  of  refinement  this  diction  became  daily  more  and 
more  corrupt,  thrusting  out  of  sight  the  plain  humanities  of  nature 
by  a  motley  masquerade  of  tricks,  quaintnesses,  hieroglyphics,  and 
enigmas. 

It  would  not  be  uninteresting  to  point  out  the  causes  of  the 
pleasure  given  by  this  extravagant  and  absurd  diction.  It  depends 
upon  a  great  variety  of  causes,  but  upon  none,  perhaps,  more  than 
its  influence  in  impressing  a  notion  of  the  peculiarity  and  exaltation 
of  the  poet's  character,  and  in  flattering  the  reader's  self-love  by 
bringing  him  nearer  to  a  sympathy  with  that  character  ;  an  effect 
which  is  accomplished  by  unsettling  ordinary  habits  of  thinking, 
and  thus  assisting  the  reader  to  approach  to  that  perturbed  and 
dizzy  state  of  mind  in  which  if  he  does  not  find  himself,  he  imagines 
that  he  is  balked  of  a  peculiar  enjoyment  which  poetry  can  and 
ought  to  bestow. 

The  sonnet  quoted  from  Gray,  in  the  Preface,  except  the  lines 
printed  in  italics,  consists  of  little  else  but  this  diction,  though  not 
of  the  worst  kind  ;  and  indeed,  if  one  may  be  permitted  to  say  so, 
it  is  far  too  common  in  the  best  writers  both  ancient  and  modern. 
Perhaps  in  no  way,  by  positive  example,  could  more  easily  be  given 
a  notion  of  what  I  mean  by  the  phrase  poetic  diction  than  by  refer- 
ring to  a  comparision  between  the  metrical  paraphrase  which  we 
have  of  passages  in  the  Old  and  New  Testament,  and  those  pass- 
ages as  they  exist  in  our  common  Translation.  See  Pope's  Messiah 
throughout ;  Prior's  "Did  sweeter  sounds  adorn  my  flowing  tongue," 
etc.,  etc.;  "  Though  I  speak  with  the  tongues  of  men  and  of  angels," 
etc.,  etc.,  1st  Corinthians,  chap.  xiii.  By  way  of  immediate  example, 
take  the  following  of  Dr.  Johnson  : 

Turn  on  the  prudent  Ant  thy  heedless  eyes, 
Observe  her  labours,  Sluggard,  and  be  wise; 
No  stern  command,  no  monitory  voice, 
Prescribes  her  duties,  or  directs  her  choice ; 
Yet,  timely  provident,  she  hastes  away 
To  snatch  the  blessings  of  a  plenteous  day; 
When  fruitful  Summer  loads  the  teeming  plain,  • 
She  crops  the  harvest,  and  she  stores  the  grain. 
How  long  shall  sloth  usurp  thy  useless  hours, 


288      WORDSWORTH  OX  POETRY  AND  POETIC  DICTION 

Unnerve  thy  vigour,  and  enchain  thy  powers? 

While  artful  shades  thy  downy  couch  enclose, 

And  soft  solicitation  courts  repose, 

Amidst  the  drowsy  charms  of  dull  delight, 

Year  chases  year  with  unremitted  flight, 

Till  Want  now  following,  fraudulent  and  slow, 

Shall  spring  to  seize  thee,  like  an  ambush'd  foe. 

From  this  hubbub  of  words  pass  to  the  original.  "  Go  to  the  Ant, 
thou  Sluggard,  consider  her  ways,  and  be  wise  :  which  having  no 
guide,  overseer,  or  ruler,  provideth  her  meat  in  the  summer,  and 
gathereth  her  food  in  the  harvest.  How  long  wilt  thou  sleep,  O 
Sluggard  ?  When  wilt  thou  arise  out  of  thy  sleep  ?  Yet  a  little 
sleep,  a  little  slumber,  a  little  folding  of  the  hands  to  sleep.  So 
shall  thy  poverty  come  as  one  that  travelleth,  and  thy  want  as  an 
armed  man."  Proverbs,  chap.  vi. 

One  more  quotation,  and  I  have  done.  It  is  from  Cowper's 
Verses  supposed  to  be  written  by  Alexander  Selkirk : 

Religion !  what  treasure  untold 

Resides  in  that  heavenly  word! 
More  precious  than  silver  and  gold, 

Or  all  that  this  earth  can  afford. 
But  the  sound  of  the  church-going  bell 

These  valleys  and  rocks  never  heard, 
Ne'er  sigh'd  at  the  sound  of  a  knell, 

Or  smiled  when  a  Sabbath  appeared. 

Ye  winds,  that  have  made  me  your  sport, 

Convey  to  this  desolate  shore 
Some  cordial  endearing  report 

Of  a  land  I  must  visit  no  more. 
My  Friends,  do  they  now  and  then  send 

A  wish  or  a  thought  after  me  ? 
O  tell  me  I  yet  have  a  friend, 

Though  a  friend  I  am  never  to  see. 

This  passage  is  quoted  as  an  instance  of  three  different  styles  of 
composition.  The  first  four  lines  are  poorly  expressed ;  some 
critics  would  call  the  language  prosaic  ;  the  fact  is,  it  would  be  bad 
prose,  so  bad,  that  it  is  scarcely  worse  in  metre.  The  epithet 
"  church-going  "  applied  to  a  bell,  and  that  by  so  chaste  a  writer  as 


FROM  ESSAY  SUPPLEMENTARY  TO  PREFACE         289 

Cowper,  is  an  instance  of  the  strange  abuses  which  poets  have 
introduced  into  their  language,  till  they  and  their  readers  take  them 
as  matters  of  course,  if  they  do  not  single  them  out  expressly  as 
objects  of  admiration.  The  two  lines  "Ne'er  sighed  at  the  sound," 
etc.,  are,  in  my  opinion,  an  instance  of  the  language  of  passion 
wrested  from  its  proper  use,  and,  from  the  mere  circumstance  of  the 
composition  being  in  metre,  applied  upon  an  occasion  that  does  not 
justify  such  violent  expressions  ;  and  I  should  condemn  the  passage, 
though  perhaps  few  readers  will  agree  with  me,  as  vicious  poetic 
diction.  The  last  stanza  is  throughout  admirably  expressed:  it 
would  be  equally  good  whether  in  prose  or  verse,  except  that  the 
reader  has  an  exquisite  pleasure  in  seeing  such  natural  language  so 
naturally  connected  with  metre.  The  beauty  of  this  stanza  tempts 
me  to  conclude  with  a  principle  which  ought  never  to  be  lost  sight 
of,  and  which  has  been  my  chief  guide  in  all  I  have  said,  —  namely, 
that  in  works  of  imagination  and  sentiment,  for  of  these  only  have 
I  been  treating,  in  proportion  as  ideas  and  feelings  are  valuable, 
whether  the  composition  be  in  prose  or  in  verse,  they  require  and 
exact  one  and  the  same  language.  Metre  is  but  adventitious  to 
composition,  and  the  phraseology  for  which  that  passport  is  neces- 
sary, even  where  it  may  be  graceful  at  all,  will  be  little  valued  by 
the  judicious. 

3.     FROM  ESSAY  SUPPLEMENTARY  TO  PREFACE  (1815) 

POETIC   CRITICISM 

With  the  young  of  both  sexes,  poetry  is,  like  love,  a  passion ;  but, 
for  much  the  greater  part  of  those  who  have  been  proud  of  its 
power  over  their  minds,  a  necessity  soon  arises  of  breaking  the 
pleasing  bondage;  or  it  relaxes  of  itself; — the  thoughts  being 
occupied  in  domestic  cares,  or  the  time  engrossed  by  business. 
Poetry  then  becomes  only  an  occasional  recreation ;  while  to  those 
whose  existence  passes  away  in  a  course  of  fashionable  pleasure,  it 
is  a  species  of  luxurious  amusement.  In  middle  and  declining  age, 
a  scattered  number  of  serious  persons  resort  to  poetry,  as  to  religion, 
for  a  protection  against  the  pressure  of  trivial  employments,  and  as 


a  consolation  for  the  afflictions  of  life.  And,  lastly,  there  are  many, 
who,  having  been  enamoured  of  this  art  in  their  youth,  have  found 
leisure,  after  youth  was  spent,  to  cultivate  general  literature  ;  in 
which  poetry  has  continued  to  be  comprehended  as  a  study. 

Into  the  above  classes  the  readers  of  poetry  may  be  divided; 
critics  abound  in  them  all ;  but  from  the  last  only  can  opinions  be 
collected  of  absolute  value,  and  worthy  to  be  depended  upon,  as 
prophetic  of  the  destiny  of  a  new  work.  The  young,  who  in  nothing 
can  escape  delusion,  are  especially  subject  to  it  in  their  intercourse 
with  poetry.  The  cause,  not  so  obvious  as  the  fact  is  unquestionable, 
is  the  same  as  that  from  which  erroneous  judgments  in  this  art,  in 
the  minds  of  men  of  all  ages,  chiefly  proceed;  but  upon  youth  it 
operates  with  peculiar  force.  The  appropriate  business  of  poetry, 
(which,  nevertheless,  if  genuine,  is  as  permanent  as  pure  science,) 
her  appropriate  employment,  her  privilege  and  her  duty,  is  to  treat 
of  things  not  as  they  are,  but  as  they  appear;  not  as  they  exist  in 
themselves,  but  as  they  seem  to  exist  to  the  senses,  and  to  the 
passions.  What  a  world  of  delusion  does  this  acknowledged  obliga- 
tion prepare  for  the  inexperienced  !  what  temptations  to  go  astray 
are  here  held  forth  for  them  whose  thoughts  have  been  little  disci- 
plined by  the  understanding,  and  whose  feelings  revolt  from  the 
sway  of  reason  !  —  When  a  juvenile  reader  is  in  the  height  of  his 
rapture  with  some  vicious  passage,  should  experience  throw  in 
doubts,  or  common-sense  suggest  suspicions,  a  lurking  consciousness 
that  the  realities  of  the  Muse  are  but  shows,  and  that  her  liveliest 
excitements  are  raised  by  transient  shocks  of  conflicting  feeling 
and  successive  assemblages  of  contradictory  thoughts  —  is  ever  at 
hand  to  justify  extravagance,  and  to  sanction  absurdity.  But,  it 
may  be  asked,  as  these  illusions  are  unavoidable,  and,  no  doubt, 
eminently  useful  to  the  mind  as  a  process,  what  good  can  be  gained 
by  making  observations,  the  tendency  of  which  is  to  diminish  the 
confidence  of  youth  in  its  feelings,  and  thus  to  abridge  its  innocent 
and  even  profitable  pleasures  ?  The  reproach  implied  in  the  ques- 
tion could  not  be  warded  off,  if  youth  were  incapable  of  being 
delighted  with  what  is  truly  excellent ;  or,  if  these  errors  always 
terminated  of  themselves  in  due  season.  But,  with  the  majority, 
though  their  force  be  abated,  they  continue  through  life.  Moreover, 


FROM  ESSAY  SUPPLEMENTARY  TO  PREFACE        291 

the  fire  of  youth  is  too  vivacious  an  element  to  be  extinguished 
or  damped  by  a  philosophical  remark;  and,  while  there  is  no 
danger  that  what  has  been  said  will  be  injurious  or  painful  to  the 
ardent  and  the  confident,  it  may  prove  beneficial  to  those  who,  being 
enthusiastic,  are,  at  the  same  time,  modest  and  ingenuous.  The 
intimation  may  unite  with  their  own  misgivings  to  regulate  their 
sensibility,  and  to  bring  in,  sooner  than  it  would  otherwise  have 
arrived,  a  more  discreet  and  sound  judgment. 

If  it  should  excite  wonder  that  men  of  ability,  in  later  life,  whose 
understandings  have  been  rendered  acute  by  practice  in  affairs, 
should  be  so  easily  and  so  far  imposed  upon  when  they  happen  to 
take  up  a  new  work  in  verse,  this  appears  to  be  the  cause  ;  —  that, 
having  discontinued  their  attention  to  poetry,  whatever  progress 
may  have  been  made  in  other  departments  of  knowledge,  they  have 
not,  as  to  this  art,  advanced  in  true  discernment  beyond  the  age  of 
youth.  If,  then,  a  new  poem  fall  in  their  way,  whose  attractions 
are  of  that  kind  which  would  have  enraptured  them  during  the  heat 
of  youth,  the  judgment  not  being  improved  to  a  degree  that  they 
shall  be  disgusted,  they  are  dazzled  ;  and  prize  and  cherish  the 
faults  for  having  had  power  to  make  the  present  time  vanish  before 
them,  and  to  throw  the  mind  back,  as  by  enchantment,  into  the 
happiest  season  of  life.  As  they  read,  powers  seem  to  be  revived, 
passions  are  regenerated,  and  pleasures  restored.  The  book  was 
probably  taken  up  after  an  escape  from  the  burden  of  business,  and 
with  a  wish  to  forget  the  world,  and  all  its  vexations  and  anxieties. 
Having  obtained  this  wish,  and  so  much  more,  it  is  natural  that 
they  should  make  report  as  they  have  felt. 

If  men  of  mature  age,  through  want  of  practice,  be  thus  easily 
beguiled  into  admiration  of  absurdities,  extravagances,  and  mis- 
placed ornaments,  thinking  it  proper  that  their  understandings 
should  enjoy  a  holiday,  while  they  are  unbending  their  minds  with 
verse,  it  may  be  expected  that  such  readers  will  resemble  their 
former  selves  also  in  strength  of  prejudice,  and  an  inaptitude  to  be 
moved  by  the  unostentatious  beauties  of  a  pure  style.  In  the 
higher  poetry,  an  enlightened  critic  chiefly  looks  for  a  reflection 
of  the  wisdom  of  the  heart  and  the  grandeur  of  the  imagination. 
Wherever  these  appear,  simplicity  accompanies  them  ;  Magnificence 


292      WORDSWORTH  ON  POETRY  AND  POETIC  DICTION 

herself,  when  legitimate,  depending  upon  a  simplicity  of  her  own, 
to  regulate  her  ornaments.  But  it  is  a  well-known  property  of 
human  nature,  that  our  estimates  are  ever  governed  by  comparisons, 
of  which  we  are  conscious  with  various  degrees  of  distinctness.  Is 
it  not,  then,  inevitable  (confining  these  observations  to  the  effects  of 
style  merely)  that  an  eye,  accustomed  to  the  glaring  hues  of  diction 
by  which  such  readers  are  caught  and  excited,  will  for  the  most 
part  be  rather  repelled  than  attracted  by  an  original  work,  the 
colouring  of  which  is  disposed  according  to  a  pure  and  refined 
scheme  of  harmony  ?  It  is  in  the  fine  arts  as  in  the  affairs  of  life, 
no  man  can  serve  (i.e.,  obey  with  zeal  and  fidelity)  two  Masters. 

As  poetry  is  most  just  to  its  own  divine  origin  when  it  administers 
the  comforts  and  breathes  the  spirit  of  religion,  they  who  have 
learned  to  perceive  "this  truth,  and  who  betake  themselves  to  read- 
ing verse  for  sacred  purposes,  must  be  preserved  from  numerous 
illusions  to  which  the  two  classes  of  readers,  whom  we  have  been 
considering,  are  liable.  But,  as  the  mind  grows  serious  from  the 
weight  of  life,  the  range  of  its  passions  is  contracted  accordingly  ; 
and  its  sympathies  become  so  exclusive,  that  many  species  of  high 
excellence  wholly  escape,  or  but  languidly  excite  its  notice.  Besides, 
men  who  read  from  religious  or  moral  inclinations,  even  when  the 
subject  is  of  that  kind  which  they  approve,  are  beset  with  miscon- 
ceptions and  mistakes  peculiar  to  themselves.  Attaching  so  much 
inportance  to  the  truths  which  interest  them,  they  are  prone  to  over- 
rate the  authors  by  whom  those  truths  are  expressed  and  enforced. 
They  come  prepared  to  impart  so  much  passion  to  the  poet's 
language,  that  they  remain  unconscious  how  little,  in  fact,  they 
receive  from  it.  And,  on  the  other  hand,  religious  faith  is  to  him 
who  holds  it  so  momentous  a  thing,  and  error  appears  to  be  attended 
with  such  tremendous  consequences,  that,  if  opinions  touching  upon 
religion  occur  which  the  reader  condemns,  he  not  only  cannot 
sympathize  with  them,  however  animated  the  expression,  but  there 
is,  for  the  most  part,  an  end  put  to  all  satisfaction  and  enjoyment. 
Love,  if  it  before  existed,  is  converted  into  dislike  ;  and  the  heart 
of  the  reader  is  set  against  the  author  and  his  book.  —  To  these 
excesses,  they,  who  from  their  professions  ought  to  be  the  most 
guarded  against  them,  are  perhaps  the  most  liable  ;  I  mean  those 


FROM   ESSAY   SUPPLEMENTARY  TO   PREFACE         293 

sects  whose  religion,  being  from  the  calculating  understanding,  is 
cold  and  formal.  For  when  Christianity,  the  religion  of  humility, 
is  founded  upon  the  proudest  faculty  of  our  nature,  what  can  be 
expected  but  contradictions  ?  Accordingly,  believers  of  this  cast 
are  at  one  time  contemptuous  ;  at  another,  being  troubled,  as  they 
are  and  must  be,  with  inward  misgivings,  they  are  jealous  and 
suspicious  ;  —  and  at  all  seasons,  they  are  under  temptation  to 
supply,  by  the  heat  with  which  they  defend  their  tenets,  the  anima- 
tion which  is  wanting  to  the  constitution  of  the  religion  itself. 

Faith  was  given  to  man  that  his  affections,  detached  from  the 
treasures  of  time,  might  be  inclined  to  settle  upon  those  of  eternity : 
—  the  elevation  of  his  nature,  which  this  habit  produces  on  earth, 
being  to  him  a  presumptive  evidence  of  a  future  state  of  existence ; 
and  giving  him  a  title  to  partake  of  its  holiness.  The  religious  man 
values  what  he  sees  chiefly  as  an  "  imperfect  shadowing  forth  "  of 
what  he  is  incapable  of  seeing.  The  concerns  of  religion  refer  to 
indefinite  objects,  and  are  too  weighty  for  the  mind  to  support  them 
without  relieving  itself  by  resting  a  great  part  of  the  burthen  upon 
words  and  symbols.  The  commerce  between  man  and  his  Maker 
cannot  be  carried  on  but  by  a  process  where  much  is  represented  in 
little,  and  the  Infinite  Being  accommodates  himself  to  a  finite 
capacity.  In  all  this  may  be  perceived  the  affinity  between  relig- 
ion and  poetry  ;  between  religion  —  making  up  the  deficiencies  of 
reason  by  faith;  and  poetry  —  passionate  for  the  instruction  of 
reason  ;  between  religion  —  whose  element  is  infinitude,  and  whose 
ultimate  trust  is  the  supreme  of  things,  submitting  herself  to  circum- 
scription, and  reconciled  to  substitutions ;  and  poetry  —  ethereal 
and  transcendent,  yet  incapable  to  sustain  her  existence  without 
sensuous  incarnation.  In  this  community  of  nature  may  be  per- 
ceived also  the  lurking  incitements  of  kindred  error  ;  —  so  that  we 
shall  find  that  no  poetry  has  been  more  subject  to  distortion,  than 
that  species,  the  argument  and  scope  of  which  is  religious ;  and  no 
lovers  of  the  art  have  gone  farther  astray  than  the  pious  and  the 
devout. 

Whither  then  shall  we  turn  for  that  union  of  qualifications  which 
must  necessarily  exist  before  the  decisions  r>f  a  critic  can  be  of 
absolute  value  ?  For  a  mind  at  once  poetical  and  philosophical ; 


294      WORDSWORTH  ON  POETRY  AND  POETIC  DICTION 

for  a  critic  whose  affections  are  as  free  and  kindly  as  the  spirit  of 
society,  and  whose  understanding  is  severe  as  that  of  dispassionate 
government  ?  Where  are  we  to  look  for  that  initiatory  composure  of 
mind  which  no  selfishness  can  disturb  ?  For  a  natural  sensibility 
that  has  been  tutored  into  correctness  without  losing  anything  of 
its  quickness;  and  for  active  faculties,  capable  of  answering  the 
demands  which  an  author  of  original  imagination  shall  make  upon 
them,  associated  with  a  judgment  that  cannot  be  duped  into  admira- 
tion by  aught  that  is  unworthy  of  it  ?  —  among  those  and  those 
only,  who,  never  having  suffered  their  youthful  love  of  poetry  to 
remit  much  of  its  force,  have  applied  to  the  consideration  of  the 
laws  of  this  art  the  best  power  of  their  understandings.  At  the 
same  time  it  must  be  observed — that,  as  this  class  comprehends 
the  only  judgments  which  are  trustworthy,  so  does  it  include  the 
most  erroneous  and  perverse.  For  to  be  mistaught  is  worse  than  to 
be  untaught  ;  and  no  perverseness  equals  that  which  is  supported 
by  system,  no  errors  are  so  difficult  to  root  out  as  those  which  the 
understanding  has  pledged  its  credit  to  uphold.  In  this  class  are 
contained  censors,  who,  if  they  be  pleased  with  what  is  good,  are 
pleased  with  it  only  by  imperfect  glimpses,  and  upon  false  prin- 
ciples ;  who,  should  they  generalize  rightly,  to  a  certain  point,  are 
sure  to  suffer  for  it  in  the  end  ;  who,  if  they  stumble  upon  a  sound 
rule,  are  fettered  by  misapplying  it,  or  by  straining  it  too  far  ; 
being  incapable  of  perceiving  when  it  ought  to  yield  to  one  of 
higher  order.  In  it  are  found  critics  too  petulant  to  be  passive  to  a 
genuine  poet,  and  too  feeble  to  grapple  with  him ;  men,  who  take 
upon  them  to  report  of  the  course  which  he  holds  whom  they  are 
utterly  unable  to  accompany,  —  confounded  if  he  turn  quick  upon 
the  wing,  dismayed  if  he  soar  steadily  "  into  the  region"  ;  —  men  of 
palsied  imaginations  and  indurated  hearts  ;  in  whose  minds  all 
healthy  action  is  languid,  who  therefore  feed  as  the  many  direct 
them,  or,  with  the  many,  are  greedy  after  vicious  provocatives  ;  — 
judges,  whose  censure  is  auspicious,  and  whose  praise  ominous  !  In 
this  class  meet  together  the  two  extremes  of  best  and  worst. 

The  observations  presented  in  the  foregoing  series  are  of  too 
ungracious  a  nature  to  have  been  made  without  reluctance ;  and, 
were  it  only  on  this  account,  I  would  invite  the  reader  to  try  them 


FROM  ESSAY  SUPPLEMENTARY   TO  PREFACE         295 

by  the  test  of  comprehensive  experience.  If  the  number  of  judges 
who  can  be  confidently  relied  upon  be  in  reality  so  small,  it  ought 
to  follow  that  partial  notice  only,  or  neglect,  perhaps  long  continued, 
or  attention  wholly  inadequate  to  their  merits,  must  have  been 
the  fate  of  most  works  in  the  higher  departments  of  poetry;  and 
that,  on  the  other  hand,  numerous  productions  have  blazed  into 
popularity,  and  have  passed  away,  leaving  scarcely  a  trace  behind 
them  :  it  will  be  further  found,  that  when  authors  shall  have  at 
length  raised  themselves  into  general  admiration  and  maintained 
their  ground,  errors  and  prejudices  have  prevailed  concerning  their 
genius  and  their  works,  which  the  few  who  are  conscious  of  those 
errors  and  prejudices  would  deplore  ;  if  they  were  not  recompensed 
by  perceiving  that  there  are  select  spirits  for  whom  it  is  ordained 
that  their  fame  shall  be  in  the  world  an  existence  like  that  of  virtue, 
which  owes  its  being  to  the  struggles  it  makes,  and  its  vigour  to  the 
enemies  whom  it  provokes  ;  —  a  vivacious  quality,  ever  doomed  to 
meet  with  opposition,  and  still  triumphing  over  it ;  and,  from  the 
nature  of  its  dominion,  incapable  of  being  brought  to  the  sad  con- 
clusion of  Alexander,  when  he  wept  that  there  were  no  more  worlds 
fpr  him  to  conquer. 

This  passage  is  followed  by  a  survey — long,  interesting,  but  very  strongly 
prejudiced  in  view,  and  not  always  quite  impeccably  accurate  in  fact — of 
English  poetry,  and  its  reception ;  which  leads  to  a  finale  on 


POPULAR  JUDGMENT 

If  there  be  one  conclusion  more  forcibly  pressed  upon  us  than 
another  by  the  review  which  has  been  given  of  the  fortunes  and 
fate  of  poetical  works,  it  is  this,  —  that  every  author,  so  far  as  he 
is  great  and  at  the  same  time  original,  has  had  the  task  of  creating 
the  taste  by  which  he  is  to  be  enjoyed :  so  has  it  been,  so  will  it 
continue  to  be.  This  remark  was  long  since  made  to  me  by  the 
philosophical  friend  for  the  separation  of  whose  poems  from  my 
own  I  have  previously  expressed  my  regret.  The  predecessors  of 
an  original  genius  of  a  high  order  will  have  smoothed  the  way  for 
all  that  he  has  in  common  with  them  ;  —  and  much  he  will  have  in 


common  ;  but,  for  what  is  peculiarly  his  own,  he  will  be  called 
upon  to  clear  and  often  to  shape  his  own  road :  —  he  will  be  in  the 
condition  of  Hannibal  among  the  Alps. 

And  where  lies  the  real  difficulty  of  creating  that  taste  by  which 
a  truly  original  poet  is  to  be  relished  ?  Is  it  in  breaking  the  bonds 
of  custom,  in  overcoming  the  prejudices  of  false  refinement,  and 
displacing  the  aversions  of  inexperience  ?  Or,  if  he  labour  for  an 
object  which  here  and  elsewhere  I  have  proposed  to  myself,  does 
it  consist  in  divesting  the  reader  of  the  pride  that  induces  him  to 
dwell  upon  those  points  wherein  men  differ  from  each  other,  to  the 
exclusion  of  those  in  which  all  men  are  alike,  or  the  same ;  and  in 
making  him  ashamed  of  the  vanity  that  renders  him  insensible  of 
the  appropriate  excellence  which  civil  arrangements,  less  unjust 
than  might  appear,  and  Nature  illimitable  in  her  bounty,  have 
conferred  on  men  who  may  stand  below  him  in  the  scale  of  society  ? 
Finally,  does  it  lie  in  establishing  that  dominion  over  the  spirits 
of  readers  by  which  they  are  to  be  humbled  and  humanized,  in 
order  that  they  may  be  purified  and  exalted? 

If  these  ends  are  to  be  attained  by  the  mere  communication  of 
knowledge,  it  does  not  lie  here.  — TASTE,  I  would  remind  the 
reader,  like  IMAGINATION,  is  a  word  which  has  been  forced  to 
extend  its  services  far  beyond  the  point  to  which  philosophy  would 
have  confined  them.  It  is  a  metaphor,  taken  from  a  passive  sense 
of  the  human  body,  and  transferred  to  things  which  are  in  their 
essence  not  passive,  —  to  intellectual  acts  and  operations.  The 
word,  Imagination,  has  been  overstrained,  from  impulses  honour- 
able to  mankind,  to  meet  the  demands  of  the  faculty  which  is 
perhaps  the  noblest  of  our  nature.  In  the  instance  of  Taste,  the 
process  has  been  reversed ;  and  from  the  prevalence  of  dispositions 
at  once  injurious  and  discreditable,  being  no  other  than  that  selfish- 
ness which  is  the  child  of  apathy,  —  which,  as  nations  decline  in 
productive  and  creative  power,  makes  them  value  themselves  upon 
a  presumed  refinement  of  judging.  Poverty  of  language  is  the 
primary  cause  of  the  use  which  we  make  of  the  word,  Imagination ; 
but  the  word,  Taste,  has  been  stretched  to  the  sense  which  it  bears 
in  modern  Europe  by  habits  of  self-conceit,  inducing  that  inversion 
in  the  order  of  things  whereby  a  passive  faculty  is  made  paramount 


FROM  ESSAY  SUPPLEMENTARY  TO   PREFACE         297 

among  the  faculties  conversant  with  the  fine  arts.  Proportion  and 
congruity,  the  requisite  knowledge  being  supposed,  are  subjects 
upon  which  taste  may  be  trusted ;  it  is  competent  to  this  office ;  — 
for  in  its  intercourse  with  these  the  mind  is  passive,  and  is  affected 
painfully  or  pleasurably  as  by  an  instinct.'  But  the  profound  and  the 
exquisite  in  feeling,  the  lofty  and  universal  in  thought  and  imagina- 
tion ;  or,  in  ordinary  language,  the  pathetic  and  the  sublime ;  —  are 
neither  of  them,  accurately  speaking,  objects  of  a  faculty  which 
could  ever  without  a  sinking  in  the  spirit  of  nations  have  been  desig- 
nated by  the  metaphor  —  Taste.  And  why?  Because  without  the 
exertion  of  a  cooperating  power  in  the  mind  of  the  reader,  there  can 
be  no  adequate  sympathy  with  either  of  these  emotions :  without 
this  auxiliary  impulse,  elevated  or  profound  passion  cannot  exist. 
Passion,  it  must  be  observed,  is  derived  from  a  word  which 
signifies  suffering  ;  but  the  connection  which  suffering  has  with 
effort,  with  exertion,  and  action,  is  immediate  and  inseparable. 
How  strikingly  is  this  property  of  human  nature  exhibited  by  the 
fact,  that,  in  popular  language,  to  be  in  a  passion,  is  to  be  angry  ! — 

But, 

Anger  in  hasty  words  or  blows 
Itself  discharges  on  its  foes. 

To  be  moved,  then,  by  a  passion,  is  to  be  excited,  often  to  external, 
and  always  to  internal,  effort ;  whether  for  the  continuance  and 
strengthening  of  the  passion,  or  for  its  suppression,  accordingly  as 
the  course  which  it  takes  may  be  painful  or  pleasurable.  If  the 
latter,  the  soul  must  contribute  to  its  support,  or  it  never  becomes 
vivid,  —  and  soon  languishes,  and  dies.  And  this  brings  us  to  the 
point.  If  every  great  poet  with  whose  writings  men  are  familiar, 
in  the  highest  exercise  of  his  genius,  before  he  can  be  thoroughly 
enjoyed,  has  to  call  forth  and  to  communicate  power,  this  service, 
in  a  still  greater  degree,  falls  upon  an  original  writer,  at  his  first 
appearance  in  the  world.  —  Of  genius  the  only  proof  is,  the  act  of 
doing  well  what  is  worthy  to  be  done,  and  what  was  never  done 
before :  Of  genius,  in  the  fine  arts,  the  only  infallible  sign  is  the 
widening  the  sphere  of  human  sensibility,  for  the  delight,  honour, 
and  benefit  of  human  nature.  Genius  is  the  introduction  of  a  new 
element  into  the  intellectual  universe  :  or,  if  that  be  not  allowed, 


298     WORDSWORTH  ON  POETRY  AND  POETIC  DICTION 

it  is  the  application  of  powers  to  objects  on  which  they  had  not 
before  been  exercised,  or  the  employment  of  them  in  such  a  manner 
as  to  produce  effects  hitherto  unknown.  What  is  all  this  but  an 
advance,  or  a  conquest,  made  by  the  soul  of  the  poet  ?  Is  it  to  be 
supposed  that  the  reader  can  make  progress  of  this  kind,  like  an 
Indian  prince  or  general  —  stretched  on  his  palanquin,  and  borne 
by  his  slaves  ?  No ;  he  is  invigorated  and  inspirited  by  his  leader, 
in  order  that  he  may  exert  himself ;  for  he  cannot  proceed  in 
quiescence,  he  cannot  be  carried  like  a  dead  weight.  Therefore  to 
create  taste  is  to  call  forth  and  bestow  power,  of  which  knowledge 
is^the  effect ;  and  there  lies  the  true  difficulty. 

As  the  pathetic  participates  of  an  animal  sensation,  it  might 
seem  —  that,  if  the  springs  of  this  emotion  were  genuine,  all  men, 
possessed  of  competent  knowledge  of  the  facts  and  circumstances, 
would  be  instantaneously  affected.  And,  doubtless,  in  the  works 
of  every  true  poet  will  be  found  passages  of  that  species  of  excell- 
ence, which  is  proved  by  effects  immediate  and  universal.  But 
there  are  emotions  of  the  pathetic  that  are  simple  and  direct,  and 
others  —  that  are  complex  and  revolutionary  ;  some  —  to  which  the 
heart  yields  with  gentleness ;  others  —  against  which  it  struggles 
with  pride ;  these  varieties  are  infinite  as  the  combinations  of  cir- 
cumstance and  the  constitutions  of  character.  Eemember,  also,  that 
the  medium  through  which,  in  poetry,  the  heart  is  to  be  affected — 
is  language ;  a  thing  subject  to  endless  fluctuations  and  arbitrary 
associations.  The  genius  of  the  poet  melts  these  down  for  his 
purpose ;  but  they  retain  their  shape  and  quality  to  him  who  is 
not  capable  of  exerting,  within  his  own  mind,  a  corresponding 
energy.  There  is  also  a  meditative,  as  well  as  a  human,  pathos ; 
an  enthusiastic,  as  well  as  an  ordinary,  sorrow  ;  a  sadness  that  has 
its  seat  in  the  depths  of  reason,  to  which  the  mind  cannot  sink 
gently  of  itself  —  but  to  which  it  must  descend  by  treading  the 
steps  of  thought.  And  for  the  sublime,  —  if  we  consider  what  are 
the  cares  that  occupy  the  passing  day,  and  how  remote  is  the 
practice  and  the  course  of  life  from  the  sources  of  sublimity  in 
the  soul  of  man,  can  it  be  wondered  that  there  is  little  existing 
preparation  for  a  poet  charged  with  a  new  mission  to  extend  its 
kingdom,  and  to  augment  and  spread  its  enjoyments  ? 


FROM  ESSAY  SUPPLEMENTARY  TO  PREFACE         299 

Away,  then,  with  the  senseless  iteration  of  the  word  popular, 
applied  to  new  works  in  poetry,  as  if  there  were  no  test  of  excell- 
ence in  this  first  of  the  fine  arts  but  that  all  men  should  run  after 
its  productions,  as  if  urged  by  an  appetite,  or  constrained  by  a 
spell !  —  The  qualities  of  writing  best  fitted  for  eager  reception  are 
either  such  as  startle  the  world  into  attention  by  their  audacity 
and  extravagance ;  or  they  are  chiefly  of  a  superficial  kind  lying 
upon  the  surfaces  of  manners;  or  arising  out  of  a  selection  and 
arrangement  of  incidents,  by  which  the  mind  is  kept  upon  the 
stretch  of  curiosity  and  the  fancy  amused  without  the  trouble  of 
thought.  But  in  every  thing  which  is  to  send  the  soul  into  herself, 
to  be  admonished  of  her  weakness,  or  to  be  made  conscious  of  her 
power :  —  wherever  life  and  nature  are  described  as  operated  upon 
by  the  creative  or  abstracting  virtue  of  the  imagination;  wher- 
ever the  instinctive  wisdom  of  antiquity  and  her  heroic  passions 
uniting,  in  the  heart  of  the  poet,  with  the  meditative  wisdom  of 
later  ages,  have  produced  that  accord  of  sublimated  humanity, 
which  is  at  once  a  history  of  the  remote  past  and  a  prophetic 
enunciation  of  the  remotest  future,  there,  the  poet  must  reconcile 
himself  for  a  season  to  few  and  scattered  hearers.  —  Grand  thoughts 
(and  Shakespeare  must  often  have  sighed  over  this  truth),  as  they 
are  most  naturally  and  most  fitly  conceived  in  solitude,  so  can  they 
not  be  brought  forth  in  the  midst  of  plaudits,  without  some  viola- 
tion of  their  sanctity.  Go  to  a  silent  exhibition  of  the  productions 
of  the  sister  art,  and  be  convinced  that  the  qualities  which  dazzle 
at  first  sight,  and  kindle  the  admiration  of  the  multitude,  are  essenti- 
ally different  from  those  by  which  permanent  influence  is  secured. 
Let  us  not  shrink  from  following  up  these  principles  as  far  as  they 
will  carry  us,  and  conclude  with  observing — that  there  never  has 
been  a  period,  and  perhaps  never  will  be,  in  which  vicious  poetry, 
of  some  kind  or  other,  has  not  excited  more  zealous  admiration, 
and  been  far  more  generally  read,  than  good;  but  this  advantage 
attends  the  good,  that  the  individual,  as  well  as  the  species,  sur- 
vives from  age  to  age;  whereas,  of  the  depraved,  though  the 
species  be  immortal,  the  individual  quickly  perishes ;  the  object 
of  present  admiration  vanishes,  being  supplanted  by  some  other 
as  easily  produced ;  which,  though  no  better,  brings  with  it  at 


300      WORDSWORTH  ON  POETRY  AND  POETIC  DICTION 

least  the  irritation  of  novelty,  —  with  adaptation,  more  or  less 
skilful,  to  the  changing  humours  of  the  majority  of  those  who  are 
most  at  leisure  to  regard  poetical  works  when  they  first  solicit 
their  attention. 

Is  it  the  result  of  the  whole,  that,  in  the  opinion  of  the  writer, 
the  judgment  of  the  people  is  not  to  be  respected  ?  The  thought  is 
most  injurious;  and,  could  the  charge  be  brought  against  him,  he 
would  repel  it  with  indignation.  The  people  have  already  been 
justified,  and  their  eulogium  pronounced  by  implication,  when  it 
was  said,  above  —  that,  of  good  poetry,  the  individual,  as  well  as 
the  species,  survives.  And  how  does  it  survive  but  through  the 
people  ?  What  preserves  it  but  their  intellect  and  their  wisdom  ? 

Past  and  future,  are  the  wiiigs 

On  whose  support,  harmoniously  conjoined, 

Moves  the  great  Spirit  of  human  knowledge MS. 

The  voice  that  issues  from  this  Spirit,  is  that  Vox  Populi  which 
the  Deity  inspires.  Foolish  must  he  be  who  can  mistake  for  this  a 
local  acclamation,  or  a  transitory  outcry  —  transitory  though  it  be 
for  years,  local  though  from  a  nation.  Still  more  lamentable  is  his 
error  who  can  believe  that  there  is  any  thing  of  divine  infallibility 
in  the  clamour  of  that  small  though  loud  portion  of  the  community, 
ever  governed  by  factitious  influence,  which,  under  the  name  of 
the  PUBLIC,  passes  itself,  upon  the  unthinking,  for  the  PEOPLE. 
Towards  the  Public,  the  writer  hopes  that  he  feels  as  much  deference 
as  it  is  entitled  to ;  but  to  the  People,  philosophically  characterized, 
and  to  the  embodied  spirit  of  their  knowledge,  so  far  as  it  exists 
and  moves,  at  the  present,  faithfully  supported  by  its  two  wings, 
the  past  and  the  future,  his  devout  respect,  his  reverence,  is  due. 
He  offers  it  willingly  and  readily  ;  and,  this  done,  takes  leave  of 
his  readers,  by  assuring  them  —  that,  if  he  were  not  persuaded  that 
the  contents  of  these  volumes,  and  the  work  to  which  they  are 
subsidiary,  evince  something  of  the  "  Vision  and  the  Faculty 
divine  ; "  and  that,  both  in  words  and  things,  they  will  operate  in 
their  degree,  to  extend  the  domain  of  sensibility  for  the  delight,  the 
honour,  and  the  benefit  of  human  nature,  notwithstanding  the  many 
happy  hours  which  he  has  employed  in  their  composition,  and  the 


FROM  PREFACE  TO   EDITION  OF   1815  301 

manifold  comforts  and  enjoyments  they  have  procured  to  him,  he 
would  not,  if  a  wish  could  do  it,  save  them  from  immediate  destruc- 
tion;— from  becoming  at  this  moment,  to  the  world,  as  a  thing 
that  had  never  been. 


4.     FROM  PREFACE   TO  EDITION  OF   1815 
THE  REQUIREMENTS  OF  THE  POET1 

The  powers  requisite  for  the  production  of  poetry  are  :  first,  those 
of  Observation  and  Description,  —  i.e. ,  the  ability  to  observe  with 
accuracy  things  as  they  are  in  themselves,  and  with  fidelity  to 
describe  them,  unmodified  by  any  passion  or  feeling  existing  in  the 
mind  of  the  describer  :  whether  the  things  depicted  be  actually 
present  to  the  senses,  or  have  a  place  only  in  the  memory.  This 
power,  though  indispensable  to  a  poet,  is  one  which  he  employs 
only  in  submission  to  necessity,  and  never  for  a  continuance  of 
time  :  as  its  exercise  supposes  all  the  higher  qualities  of  the  mind 
to  be  passive,  and  in  a  state  of  subjection  to  external  objects,  much 
in  the  same  way  as  a  translator  or  engraver  ought  to  be  to  his 
original.  Secondly,  Sensibility,  —  which,  the  more  exquisite  it  is, 
the  wider  will  be  the  range  of  a  poet's  perceptions  ;  and  the  more 
will  he  be  incited  to  observe  objects,  both  as  they  exist  in  themselves 
and  as  reacted  upon  by  his  own  mind.  (The  distinction  between 
poetic  and  human  sensibility  has  been  marked  in  the  character  of 
the  Poet  delineated  in  the  original  preface.)  Thirdly,  Reflection, 
—  which  makes  the  poet  acquainted  with  the  value  of  actions, 
images,  thoughts,  and  feelings  ;  and  assists  the  sensibility  in  per- 
ceiving their  connection  with  each  other.  Fourthly,  Imagination 
and  Fancy,  —  to  modify,  to  create,  and  to  associate.  Fifthly,  Inven- 
tion, —  by  which  characters  are  composed  out  of  materials  supplied 
by  observation ;  whether  of  the  poet's  own  heart  and  mind,  or  of 
external  life  and  nature  ;  and  such  incidents  and  situations  produced 
as  are  most  impressive  to  the  imagination,  and  most  fitted  to  do 

1  It  would  not  suit  the  plan  of  this  work  to  comment  on,  but  it  is  permissible 
to  call  attention  to,  the  astounding  petitio  principii  in  Wordsworth's  own  note, 
given  m/ra,  to  this  passage. 


302     WORDSWORTH  ON  POETRY  AND  POETIC  DICTION 

justice  to  the  characters,  sentiments,  and  passions,  which  the  poet 
undertakes  to  illustrate.  And,  lastly,  Judgment,  —  to  decide  how 
and  where,  and  in  what  degree,  each  of  these  faculties  ought  to  be 
exerted ;  so  that  the  less  shall  not  be  sacrificed  to  the  greater ;  nor 
the  greater,  slighting  the  less,  arrogate,  to  its  own  injury,  more  than 
its  due.  By  judgment,  also,  is  determined  what  are  the  laws  and 
appropriate  graces  of  every  species  of  composition.* 

*  As  sensibility  to  harmony  of  numbers,  and  the  power  of  producing  it,  are 
invariably  attendants  upon  the  faculties  above  specified,  nothing  has  been  said 
upon  those  requisites. 


XXVII 
COLERIDGE   ON  WORDSWORTH   AND  POETRY 

FROM    BIOGRAPHIA    LITERARIA    (1817),  CHAPS.    XIV-XXII 

(The  excesses  and  the  paralogisms  of  Wordsworth's  Apologia  could  not 
escape  Coleridge ;  but  it  would  have  been  awkward  for  him,  seeing  that  he 
had  been  a  partner  in  the  Lyrical  Ballads,  to  take  up  the  cudgels  at  once. 
Even  in  this  examination,  which  appeared  seventeen  years  later  in  the 
Biographia  Literaria,  he  seems  almost  nervously  anxious  to  avoid  meeting 
his  old  comrade  "  manful  under  shield,"  and  in  some  points  (such  as  the 
relations  of  verse  and  poetry)  obviously  "  hedges  "  and  "  transacts."  Yet 
the  whole  examination  is  one  of  the  very  apices  of  English  criticism ;  and 
for  once  it  is  free  from  the  scrappiness,  though  not  (as  a  whole  and  in  the 
original)  from  some  of  the  digression  and  desultoriuess,  which  are  apt  to 
beset  Coleridge's  work.  I  have  endeavoured  here  to  strip  it  of  these  super- 
fluities, as  far  as  is  possible  without  spoiling  its  sequence  and  texture.) 

THE   LYRICAL   BALLADS  —  PHILOSOPHIC   DEFINITIONS 
OF   A   POEM   AND   POETRY 

During  the  first  year  that  Mr.  Wordsworth  and  I  were  neigh- 
bours, our  conversations  turned  frequently  on  the  two  cardinal 
points  of  poetry,  the  power  of  exciting  the  sympathy  of  the  reader 
by  a  faithful  adherence  to  the  truth  of  nature,  and  the  power  of 
giving  the  interest  of  novelty  by  the  modifying  colours  of  imagina- 
tion. The  sudden  charm,  which  accidents  of  light  and  shade,  which 
moonlight  or  sunset,  diffused  over  a  known  and  familiar  landscape, 
appeared  to  represent  the  practicability  of  combining  both.  These 
are  the  poetry  of  nature.  The  thought  suggested  itself  (to  which 
of  us  I  do  not  recollect)  that  a  series  of  poems  might  be  composed 
of  two  sorts.  In  the  one,  the  incidents  and  agents  were  to  be,  in 

303 


304         COLERIDGE  ON   WORDSWORTH  AND   POETRY 

part  at  least,  supernatural ;  and  the  excellence  aimed  at  was  to 
consist  in  the  interesting  of  the  affections  by  the  dramatic  truth  of 
such  emotions,  as  would  naturally  accompany  such  situations,  sup- 
posing them  real.  And  real  in  this  sense  they  have  been  to  every 
human  being  who,  from  whatever  source  of  delusion,  has  at  any 
time  believed  himself  under  supernatural  agency.  For  the  second 
class,  subjects  were  to  be  chosen  from  ordinary  life ;  the  characters 
and  incidents  were  to  be  such  as  will  be  found  in  every  village  and 
its  vicinity  where  there  is  a  meditative  and  feeling  mind  to  seek 
after  them,  or  to  notice  them  when  they  present  themselves. 

In  this  idea  originated  the  plan  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads;  in  which 
it  was  agreed  that  my  endeavours  should  be  directed  to  persons  and 
characters  supernatural,  or  at  least  romantic;  yet  so  as  to  transfer 
from  our  inward  nature  a  human  interest  and  a  semblance  of  truth 
sufficient  to  procure  for  these  shadows  of  imagination  that  willing 
suspension  of  disbelief  for  the  moment,  which  constitutes  poetic 
faith.  Mr.  Wordsworth,  on  the  other  hand,  was  to  propose  to  him- 
self as  his  object,  to  give  the  charm  of  novelty  to  things  of  every 
day,  and  to  excite  a  feeling  analogous  to  the  supernatural,  by 
awakening  the  mind's  attention  from  the  lethargy  of  custom,  and 
directing  it  to  the  loneliness  and  the  wonders  of  the  world  before 
us ;  an  inexhaustible  treasure,  but  for  which,  in  consequence  of  the 
film  of  familiarity  and  selfish  solicitude,  we  have  eyes,  yet  see  not, 
ears  that  hear  not,  and  hearts  that  neither  feel  nor  understand. 

With  this  view  I  wrote  the  Ancient  Mariner,  and  was  preparing, 
among  other  poems,  the  Dark  Ladle  and  the  Christabel,  in  which  I 
should  have  more  nearly  realized  my  ideal  than  I  had  done  in  my 
first  attempt.  But  Mr.  Wordsworth's  industry  had  proved  so  much 
more  successful,  and  the  number  of  his  poems  so  much  greater, 
that  my  compositions,  instead  of  forming  a  balance,  appeared 
rather  an  interpolation  of  heterogeneous  matter.  Mr.  Wordsworth 
added  two  or  three  poems  written  in  his  own  character,  in  the 
impassioned,  lofty,  and  sustained  diction  which  is  characteristic 
of  his  genius.  In  this  form  the  Lyrical  Ballads  were  published ; 
and  were  presented  by  him,  as  an  experiment,  whether  subjects, 
which  from  their  nature  rejected  the  usual  ornaments  and  extra- 
colloquial  style  of  poems  in  general,  might  not  be  so  managed  in 


THE  LYRICAL  BALLADS  305 

the  language  of  ordinary  life  as  to  produce  the  pleasurable  interest 
which  it  is  the  peculiar  business  of  poetry  to  impart.  To  the  second 
edition  he  added  a  preface  of  considerable  length ;  in  which,  not- 
withstanding some  passages  of  apparently  a  contrary  import,  he 
was  understood  to  contend  for  the  extension  of  this  style  to  poetry 
of  all  kinds,  and  to  reject  as  vicious  and  indefensible  all  phrases 
and  forms  of  style  that  were  not  included  in  what  he  (unfortunately, 
I  think,  adopting  an  equivocal  expression)  called  the  language  of 
real  life.  From  this  preface,  prefixed  to  poems  in  which  it  was 
impossible  to  deny  the  presence  of  original  genius,  however  mis- 
taken its  direction  might  be  deemed,  arose  the  whole  long-continued 
controversy.  For  from  the  conjunction  of  perceived  power  with 
supposed  heresy  I  explain  the  inveteracy,  and  in  some  instances,  I 
grieve  to  say,  the  acrimonious  passions,  with  which  the  controversy 
has  been  conducted  by  the  assailants. 

Had  Mr.  Wordsworth's  poems  been  the  silly,  the  childish  things 
which  they  were  for  a  long  time  described  as  being ;  had  they  been 
really  distinguished  from  the  compositions  of  other  poets  merely 
by  meanness  of  language  and  inanity  of  thought ;  had  they  indeed 
contained  nothing  more  than  what  is  found  in  the  parodies  and 
pretended  imitations  of  them ;  they  must  have  sunk  at  once,  a  dead 
weight,  into  the  slough  of  oblivion,  and  have  dragged  the  preface 
along  with  them.  But  year  after  year  increased  the  number  of 
Mr.  Wordsworth's  admirers.  They  were  found,  too,  not  in  the 
lower  classes  of  the  reading  public,  but  chiefly  among  young  men 
of  strong  sensibility  and  meditative  minds ;  and  their  admiration 
(inflamed  perhaps  in  some  degree  by  opposition)  was  distinguished 
by  its  intensity,  I  might  almost  say,  by  its  religious  fervour. 
These  facts,  and  the  intellectual  energy  of  the  author,  which  was 
more  or  less  consciously  felt,  where  it  was  outwardly  and  even 
boisterously  denied,  meeting  with  sentiments  of  aversion  to  his 
opinions,  and  of  alarm  at  their  consequences,  produced  an  eddy  of 
criticism,  which  would  of  itself  have  borne  up  the  poems  by  the 
violence  with  which  it  whirled  them  round  and  round.  With  many 
parts  of  this  preface,  in  the  sense  attributed  to  them,  and  which 
the  words  undoubtedly  seem  to  authorize,  I  never  concurred ;  but, 
on  the  contrary,  objected  to  them  as  erroneous  in  principle,  and  as 


306         COLERIDGE  ON   WORDSWORTH  AND  POETRY 

contradictory  (in  appearance  at  least)  both  to  other  parts  of  the 
same  preface  and  to  the  author's  own  practice  in  the  greater  num- 
ber of-  the  poems  themselves.  Mr.  Wordsworth,  in  his  recent 
collection,  has,  I  find,  degraded  this  prefatory  disquisition  to  the 
end  of  his  second  volume,  to  be  read  or  not  at  the  reader's  choice. 
But  he  has  not,  as  far  as  I  can  discover,  announced  any  change  in 
his  poetic  creed.  At  all  events,  considering  it  as  the  source  of  a 
controversy,  in  which  I  have  been  honoured  more  than  I  deserve 
by  the  frequent  conjunction  of  my  name  with  his,  I  think  it  expe- 
dient to  declare,  once  for  all,  in  what  points  I  coincide  with  his 
opinions,  and  in  what  points  I  altogether  differ.  But  in  order  to 
render  myself  intelligible,  I  must  previously,  in  as  few  words  as 
possible,  explain  my  ideas,  first,  of  a  poem ;  and  secondly,  of  poetry 
itself,  in  kind  and  in  essence. 

The  office  of  philosophical  disquisition  consists  in  just  distinc- 
tion ;  while  it  is  the  privilege  of  the  philosopher  to  preserve  him- 
self constantly  aware  that  distinction  is  not  division.  In  order 
to  obtain  adequate  notions  of  any  truth,  we  must  intellectually 
separate  its  distinguishable  parts ;  and  this  is  the  technical  process 
of  philosophy.  But  having  so  done,  we  must  then  restore  them  in 
our  conceptions  to  the  unity  in  which  they  actually  coexist ;  and 
this  is  the  result  of  philosophy.  A  poem  contains  the  same  ele- 
ments as  a  prose  composition ;  the  difference,  therefore,  must  con- 
sist in  a  different  combination  of  them,  in  consequence  of  a  different 
object  proposed.  According  to  the  difference  of  the  object  will  be 
the  difference  of  the  combination.  It  is  possible  that  the  object 
may  be  merely  to  facilitate  the  recollection  of  any  given  facts  or 
observations  by  artificial  arrangement;  and  the  composition  will 
be  a  poem,  merely  because  it  is  distinguished  from  prose  by  metre, 
or  by  rhyme,  or  by  both  conjointly.  In  this,  the  lowest  sense,  a 
man  might  attribute  the  name  of  a  poem  to  the  well-known  enumer- 
ation of  the  days  in  the  several  months : 

Thirty  days  hath  September, 
April,  June,  and  November,  etc. 

and  others  of  the  same  class  and  purpose.  And  as  a  particular 
pleasure  is  found  in  anticipating  the  recurrence  of  sounds  and 


THE  LYRICAL  BALLADS  307 

quantities,  all  compositions  that  have  this  charm  superadded,  what- 
ever be  their  contents,  may  be  entitled  poems. 

So  much  for  the  superficial  form.  A  difference  of  object  and 
contents  supplies  an  additional  ground  of  distinction.  The  imme- 
diate purpose  may  be  the  communication  of  truths  ;  either  of  truth 
absolute  and  demonstrable,  as  in  works  of  science ;  or  of  facts 
experienced  and  recorded,  as  in  history.  Pleasure,  and  that  of  the 
highest  and  most  permanent  kind,  may  result  from  the  attainment 
of  the  end ;  but  it  is  not  itself  the  immediate  end.  In  other  works 
the  communication  of  pleasure  may  be  the  immediate  purpose ;  and 
though  truth,  either  moral  or  intellectual,  ought  to  be  the  ultimate 
end,  yet  this  will  distinguish  the  character  of  the  author,  not  the 
class  to  which  the  work  belongs.  Blest  indeed  is  that  state  of 
society,  in  which  the  immediate  purpose  would  be  baffled  by  the 
perversion  of  the  proper  ultimate  end ;  in  which  no  charm  of  dic- 
tion or  imagery  could  exempt  the  Bathyllus  even  of  an  Anacreon, 
or  the  Alexis  of  Virgil,  from  disgust  and  aversion  ! 

But  the  communication  of  pleasure  may  be  the  immediate  object 
of  a  work  not  metrically  composed ;  and  that  object  may  have  been 
in  a  high  degree  attained,  as  in  novels  and  romances.  Would  then 
the  mere  superaddition  of  metre,  with  or  without  rhyme,  entitle 
these  to  the  name  of  poems  ?  The  answer  is,  that  nothing  can  per- 
manently please,  which  does  not  contain  in  itself  the  reason  why  it 
is  so,  and  not  otherwise.  If  metre  be  superadded,  all  other  parts 
must  be  made  consonant  with  it.  They  must  be  such  as  to  justify 
the  perpetual  and  distinct  attention  to  each  part,  which  an  exact 
correspondent  recurrence  of  accent  and  sound  are  calculated  to 
excite.  The  final  definition  then,  so  deduced,  may  be  thus  worded. 
A  poem  is  that  species  of  composition,  which  is  opposed  to  works  of 
science,  by  proposing  for  its  immediate  object  pleasure,  not  truth ; 
and  from  all  other  species  (having  this  object  in  common  with  it) 
it  is  discriminated  by  proposing  to  itself  such  delight  from  the 
whole,  as  is  compatible  with  a  distinct  gratification  from  each 
component  part. 

Controversy  is  not  seldom  excited  in  consequence  of  the  disputants 
attaching  each  a  different  meaning  to  the  same  word ;  and  in  few 
instances  has  this  been  more  striking  than  in  disputes  concerning 


308         COLERIDGE  ON  WORDSWORTH  AND  POETRY 

the  present  subject.  If  a  man  chooses  to  call  every  composition 
a  poem,  which  is  rhyme,  or  measure,  or  both,  I  must  leave  his 
opinion  uncontroverted.  The  distinction  is  at  least  competent  to 
characterize  the  writer's  intention.  If  it  were  subjoined,  that  the 
whole  is  likewise  entertaining  or  affecting,  as  a  tale,  or  as  a  series 
of  interesting  reflections,  I  of  course  admit  this  as  another  fit 
ingredient  of  a  poem,  and  an  additional  merit.  But  if  the  definition 
sought  for  be  that  of  a  legitimate  poem,  I  answer,  it  must  be  one 
the  parts  of  which  mutually  support  and  explain  each  other ;  all  in 
their  proportion  harmonizing  with,  and  supporting  the  purpose  and 
known  influences  of  metrical  arrangement.  The  philosophic  critics 
of  all  ages  coincide  with  the  ultimate  judgment  of  all  countries,  in 
equally  denying  the  praises  of  a  just  poem,  on  the  one  hand  to  a 
series  of  striking  lines  or  distichs,  each  of  which  absorbing  the 
whole  attention  of  the  reader  to  itself,  disjoins  it  from  its  context, 
and  makes  it  a  separate  whole,  instead  of  a  harmonizing  part ;  and 
on  the  other  hand,  to  an  unsustained  composition,  from  which  the 
reader  collects  rapidly  the  general  result  unattracted  by  the  com- 
ponent parts.  The  reader  should  be  carried  forward,  not  merely  or 
chiefly  by  the  mechanical  impulse  of  curiosity,  or  by  a  restless 
desire  to  arrive  at  the  final  solution  ;  but  by  the  pleasurable 
activity  of  mind  excited  by  the  attractions  of  the  journey  itself. 
Like  the  motion  of  a  serpent,  which  the  Egyptians  made  the  emblem 
of  intellectual  power;  or  like  the  path  of  sound  through  the  air, 
at  every  step  he  pauses  and  half  recedes,  and  from  the  retrogres- 
sive movement  collects  the  force  which  again  carries  him  onward. 
Prcecipitandus  est  liber  spirits,  says  Petronius  Arbiter  most  happily. 
The  epithet,  liber,  here  balances  the  preceding  verb :  and  it  is  not 
easy  to  conceive  more  meaning  condensed  in  fewer  words. 

But  if  this  should  be  admitted  as  a  satisfactory  character  of  a 
poem,  we  have  still  to  seek  for  a  definition  of  poetry.  The  writings 
of  Plato,  and  Bishop  Taylor,  and  the  Theoria  Sacra  of  Burnet, 
furnish  undeniable  proofs  that  poetry  of  the  highest  kind  may  exist 
without  metre,  and  even  without  the  contradistinguishing  objects  of 
a  poem.  The  first  chapter  of  Isaiah  (indeed  a  very  large  proportion 
of  the  whole  book)  is  poetry  in  the  most  emphatic  sense ;  yet  it 
would  be  not  less  irrational  than  strange  to  assert,  that  pleasure, 


309 

and  not  truth,  was  the  immediate  object  of  the  prophet.  In  short, 
whatever  specific  import  we  attach  to  the  word  poetry,  there  will  be 
found  involved  in  it,  as  a  necessary  consequence,  that  a  poem  of  any 
length  neither  can  be,  nor  ought  to  be,  all  poetry.  Yet  if  a  harmo- 
nious whole  is  to  be  produced,  the  remaining  parts  must  be  pre- 
served in  keeping  with  the  poetry ;  and  this  can  be  no  otherwise 
effected  than  by  such  a  studied  selection  and  artificial  arrangement 
as  will  partake  of  one,  though  not  a  peculiar,  property  of  poetry. 
And  this  again  can  be  no  other  than  the  property  of  exciting  a  more 
continuous  and  equal  attention  than  the  language  of  prose  aims  at, 
whether  colloquial  or  written. 

My  own  conclusions  on  the  nature  of  poetry,  in  the  strictest  use 
of  the  word,  have  been  in  part  anticipated  in  the  preceding  disqui- 
sition on  the  fancy  and  imagination.  What  is  poetry?  is  so  nearly 
the  same  question  with,  what  is  a  poet  ?  that  the  answer  to  the 
one  is  involved  in  the  solution  of  the  other.  For  it  is  a  distinction 
resulting  from  the  poetic  genius  itself,  which  sustains  and  modifies 
the  images,  thoughts,  and  emotions  of  the  poet's  own  mind.  The 
poet,  described  in  ideal  perfection,  brings  the  whole  soul  of  man 
into  activity,  with  the  subordination  of  its  faculties  to  each  other, 
according  to  their  relative  worth  and  dignity.  He  diffuses  a  tone 
and  spirit  of  unity,  that  blends,  and  (as  it  were)  fuses,  each  into 
each,  by  that  synthetic  and  magical  power  to  which  we  have  exclu- 
sively appropriated  the  name  of  imagination.  This  power,  first  put 
in  action  by  the  will  and  understanding,  and  retained  under  their 
irremissive,  though  gentle  and  unnoticed,  control  (laxis  effertur 
habenis)  reveals  itself  in  the  balance  or  reconciliation  of  opposite  or 
discordant  qualities  :  of  sameness,  with  differences  ;  of  the  general, 
with  the  concrete ;  the  idea,  with  the  image ;  the  individual,  with 
the  representative ;  the  sense  of  novelty  and  freshness,  with  old 
and  familiar  objects  ;  a  more  than  usual  state  of  emotion,  with  more 
than  usual  order ;  judgment  ever  awake  and  steady  self-possession, 
with  enthusiasm  and  feeling  profound  or  vehement ;  and  while  it 
blends  and  harmonizes  the  natural  and  the  artificial,  still  subordi- 
nates art  to  nature ;  the  manner  to  the  matter ;  and  our  admiration 
of  the  poet  to  our  sympathy  with  the  poetry.  "Doubtless,"  as 
Sir  John  Davies  observes  of  the  soul  (and  his  words  may  with 


310         COLERIDGE  ON  WORDSWORTH   AND  POETRY 

slight  alteration  be  applied,  and  even  more  appropriately,  to  the 
poetic  imagination),  — 

Doubtless  this  could  not  be,  but  that  she  turns 

Bodies  to  spirit  by  sublimation  strange, 
As  fire  converts  to  fire  the  things  it  burns, 

As  we  our  food  into  our  nature  change. 

From  their  gross  matter  she  abstracts  their  forms, 
And  draws  a  kind  of  quintessence  from  things ; 

Which  to  her  proper  nature  she  transforms 
To  bear  them  light  on  her  celestial  wings. 

Thus  does  she,  when  from  individual  states 

She  doth  abstract  the  universal  kinds ; 
Which  then  reclothed  in  divers  names  and  fates 

Steal  access  through  our  senses  to  our  minds. 

Finally,  good  sense  is  the  body  of  poetic  genius,  fancy  its  drapery, 
motion  its  life,  and  imagination  the  soul  that  is  everywhere,  and  in 
each ;  and  forms  all  into  one  graceful  and  intelligent  whole. 

Here  follows  in  Chap.  XV  an  analysis  of  Shakespeare's  Venus  and 
Adonis  and  Rape  of  Lucrece;  and  in  XVI  some  characteristic  divagation 
on  Italian  poetry  chiefly. 


CHAPTER  XVII "REAL"   AND   "RUSTIC"  LIFE  — 

THEORIES   OF   DICTION 

As  far,  then,  as  Mr.  Wordsworth  in  his  preface  contended,  and 
most  ably  contended,  for  a  reformation  in  our  poetic  diction;  as 
far  as  he  has  evinced  the  truth  of  passion,  and  the  dramatic 
propriety'  of  those  figures  and  metaphors  in  the  original  poets, 
which,  stripped  of  their  justifying  reasons  and  converted  into  mere 
artifices  of  connection  or  ornament,  constitute  the  characteristic 
falsity  in  the  poetic  style  of  the  moderns  ;  and  as  far  as  he  has, 
with  equal  acuteness  and  clearness,  pointed  out  the  process  by 
which  this  change  was  effected,  and  the  resemblances  between  that 
state  into  which  the  reader's  mind  is  thrown  by  the  pleasurable 
confusion  of  thought  from  an  unaccustomed  train  of  words  and 
images,  and  that  state  which  is  induced  by  the  natural  language  of 


"REAL"   AND   "RUSTIC"   LIFE  311 

impassioned  feeling ;  he  undertook  a  useful  task,  and  deserves  all 
praise,  both  for  the  attempt  and  for  the  execution.  The  provocations 
to  this  remonstrance  in  behalf  of  truth  and  nature  were  still  of  per- 
petual recurrence  before  and  after  the  publication  of  this  preface.1 

My  own  differences  from  certain  supposed  parts  of  Mr.  Words- 
worth's theory  ground  themselves  on  the  assumption  that  his 
words  had  been  rightly  interpreted,  as  purporting  that  the  proper 
diction  for  poetry  in  general  consists  altogether  in  a  language 
taken,  with  due  exceptions,  from  the  mouths  of  men  in  real  life, 
a  language  which  actually  constitutes  the  natural  conversation  of 
men  under  the  influence  of  natural  feelings.  My  objection  is,  first, 
that  in  any  sense  this  rule  is  applicable  only  to  certain  classes  of 
poetry;  secondly,  that  even  to  these  classes  it  is  not  applicable, 
except  in  such  a  sense  as  hath  never  by  any  one  (as  far  as  I  know 
or  have  read)  been  denied  or  doubted ;  and,  lastly,  that  as  far  as, 
and  in  that  degree  in  which,  it  is  practicable,  it  is  yet,  as  a  rule, 
useless,  if  not  injurious,  and,  therefore,  either  need  not  or  ought 
not  to  be  practised.  The  poet  informs  his  reader  that  he  had 
generally  chosen  low  and  rustic  life,  but  not  as  low  and  rustic,  or 
in  order  to  repeat  that  pleasure  of  doubtful  moral  effect  which  per- 
sons of  elevated  rank  and  of  superior  refinement  oftentimes  derive 
from  a  happy  imitation  of  the  rude  unpolished  manners  and  dis- 
course of  their  inferiors.  For  the  pleasure  so  derived  may  be 
traced  to  three  exciting  causes.  The  first  is  the  naturalness,  in 
fact,  of  the  things  represented.  The  second  is  the  apparent  natu- 
ralness of  the  representation,  as  raised  and  qualified  by  an  imper- 
ceptible infusion  of  the  author's  own  knowledge  and  talent,  which 
infusion  does  indeed  constitute  it  an  imitation,  as  distinguished 
from  a  mere  copy.  The  third  cause  may  be  found  in  the  reader's 
conscious  feeling  of  his  superiority,  awakened  by  the  contrast  pre- 
sented to  him ;  even  as  for  the  same  purpose  the  kings  and  great 
barons  of  yore  retained  sometimes  actual  clowns  and  fools  but  more 
frequently  shrewd  and  witty  fellows  in  that  character.  These, 
however,  were  not  Mr.  Wordsworth's  objects.  He  chose  low  and 

1  The  omitted  passage  has  reference  to  Wordsworth's  silent  but  steady 
extension  of  influence.  It  is  interesting ;  but  a  digression. 


312        COLERIDGE  ON  WORDSWORTH  AND  POETRY 

rustic  life,  "  because  in  that  condition  the  essential  passions  of  the 
heart  find  a  better  soil  in  which  they  can  attain  their  maturity, 
are  less  under  restraint,  and  speak  a  plainer  and  more  emphatic 
language  ;  because  in  that  condition  of  life  onr  elementary  feelings 
coexist  in  a  state  of  greater  simplicity,  and  consequently  may  be 
more  accurately  contemplated  and  more  forcibly  communicated ; 
because  the  manners  of  rural  life  germinate  from  those  elementary 
feelings,  and  from  the  necessary  character  of  rural  occupations 
are  more  easily  comprehended  and  are  more  durable ;  and,  lastly, 
because  in  that  condition  the  passions  of  men  are  incorporated  with 
the  beautiful  and  permanent  forms  of  nature." 

Now  it  is  clear  to  me  that  in  the  most  interesting  of  the  poems, 
in  which  the  author  is  more  or  less  dramatic,  as  The  Brothers, 
Michael,  Ruth,  The  Mad  Mother,  etc.,  the  persons  introduced  are 
by  no  means  taken  from  low  or  rustic  life  in  the  common  accep- 
tation of  those  words;  and  it  is  not  less  clear,  that  the  sentiments 
and  language,  as  far  as  they  can  be  conceived  to  have  been  really 
transferred  from  the  minds  and  conversation  of  such  persons,  are 
attributable  to  causes  and  circumstances  not  necessarily  connected 
with  "  their  occupations  and  abode."  The  thoughts,  feelings,  langu- 
age, and  manners  of  the  shepherd-farmers  in  the  vales  of  Cumber- 
land and  Westmoreland,  as  far  as  they  are  actually  adopted  in 
those  poems,  may  be  accounted  for  fro'm  causes  which  will  and  do 
produce  the  same  results  in  every  state  of  life,  whether  in  town 
or  country.  As  the  two  principal,  I  rank  that  independence  which 
raises  a  man  above  servitude  or  daily  toil  for  the  profit  of  others, 
yet  not  above  the  necessity  of  industry  and  a  frugal  simplicity  of 
domestic  life,  and  the  accompanying  unambitious,  but  solid  and 
religious,  education  which  has  rendered  few  books  familiar  but  the 
Bible  and  the  liturgy  or  hymn-book.  To  this  latter  cause  indeed, 
which  is  so  far  accidental  that  it  is  the  blessing  of  particular 
countries  and  a  particular  age,  not  the  product  of  particular  places 
or  employments,  the  poet  owes  the  show  of  probability  that  his 
personages  might  really  feel,  think,  and  talk  with  any  tolerable 
resemblance  to  his  representation.  It  is  an  excellent  remark  of 
Dr.  Henry  More's,*  that  "  a  man,  of  confined  education,  but  of  good 
*  Enthusiasmus  Triumpfiatus,  Sec.  xxxv. 


"REAL"  AND   "RUSTIC"  LIFE  313 

parts,  by  constant  reading  of  the  Bible,  will  naturally  form  a  more 
winning  and  commanding  rhetoric  than  those  that  are  learned,  the 
intermixture  of  tongues  and  of  artificial  phrases  debasing  their 
style." 

It  is,  moreover,  to  be  considered,  that  to  the  formation  of  healthy 
feelings,  and  a  reflecting  mind,  negations  involve  impediments  not 
less  formidable  than  sophistication  and  vicious  intermixture.  I 
am  convinced  that  for  the  human  soul  to  prosper  in  rustic  life 
a  certain  vantage-ground  is  prerequisite.  It  is  not  every  man  that 
is  likely  to  be  improved  by  a  country  life  or  by  country  labours. 
Education,  or  original  sensibility,  or  both,  must  preexist,  if  the 
changes,  forms,  and  incidents  of  nature  are  to  prove  a  sufficient 
stimulant.  And  where  these  are  not  sufficient,  the  mind  contracts 
and  hardens  by  want  of  stimulants,  and  the  man  becomes  selfish, 
sensual,  gross,  and  hard-hearted.  Let  the  management  of  the  Poor 
Laws  in  Liverpool,  Manchester,  or  Bristol,  be  compared  with  the 
ordinary  dispensation  of  the  poor  rates  in  agricultural  villages, 
where  the  farmers  are  the  overseers  and  guardians  of  the  poor.  If 
my  own  experience  has  not  been  particularly  unfortunate,  as  well 
as  that  of  the  many  respectable  country  clergymen  with  whom  I 
have  conversed  on  the  subject,  the  result  would  engender  more  than 
scepticism  concerning  the  desirable  influences  of  low  and  rustic  life 
in  and  for  itself.  Whatever  may  be  concluded  on  the  other  side, 
from  the  stronger  local  attachments  and  enterprising  spirit  of 
the  Swiss,  and  other  mountaineers,  applies  to  a  particular  mode 
of  pastoral  life,  under  forms  of  property  that  permit  and  beget 
manners  truly  republican,  not  to  rustic  life  in  general,  or  to  the 
absence  of  artificial  cultivation.  On  the  contrary  the  mountaineers, 
whose  manners  have  been  so  often  eulogized,  are  in  general  better 
educated  and  greater  readers  than  men  of  equal  rank  elsewhere. 
But  where  this  is  not  the  case,  as  among  the  peasantry  of  North 
Wales,  the  ancient  mountains,  with  all  their  terrors  and  all  tneir 
glories,  are  pictures  to  the  blind  and  music  to  the  deaf. 

I  should  not  have  entered  so  much  into  detail  upon  this  passage, 
but  here  seems  to  be  the  point  to  which  all  the  lines  of  difference 
converge  as  to  their  source  and  centre.  (I  mean,  as  far  as,  and  in 
whatever  respect,  my  poetic  creed  does  differ  from  the  doctrines 


314         COLERIDGE  ON  WORDSWORTH  AND  POETRY 

promulged  in  this  preface.)  I  adopt  with  full  faith  the  principle 
of  Aristotle,  that  poetry  as  poetry  is  essentially  ideal,*  that  it 
avoids  and  excludes  all  accidents ;  that  its  apparent  individualities 
of  rank,  character,  or  occupation  must  be  representative  of  a  class  ; 
and  that  the  persons  of  poetry  must  be  clothed  with  generic  attri- 
butes, with  the  common  attributes  of  the  class ;  not  with  such  as 
one  gifted  individual  might  possibly  possess,  but  such  as  from  his 
situation  it  is  most  probable  before-hand  that  he  would  possess.  If 
my  premises  are  right,  and  my  deductions  legitimate,  it  follows  that 
there  can  be  no  poetic  medium  between  the  swains  of  Theocritus 
and  those  of  an  imaginary  golden  age.  - 

The  characters  of  the  vicar  and  the  shepherd-mariner  in  the 
poem  of  The  Brothers,  of  the  Shepherd  of  Green-head  Gill  in 
the  Michael,  have  all  the  verisimilitude  and  representative  qual- 
ity that  the  purposes  of  poetry  can  require.  They  are  persons 

*  Say  not  that  I  am  recommending  abstractions,  for  these  class-characteristics 
which  constitute  the  instructiveness  of  a  character  are  so  modified  and  particul- 
arized in  each  person  of  the  Shakespearean  drama,  that  life  itself  does  not 
excite  more  distinctly  that  sense  of  individuality  which  belongs  to  real  existence. 
Paradoxical  as  it  may  sound,  one  of  the  essential  properties  of  geometry  is  not 
less  essential  to  dramatic  excellence ;  and  Aristotle  has  accordingly  required  of 
the  poet  an  involution  of  the  universal  in  the  individual.  The  chief  differences 
are,  that  in  geometry  it  is  the  universal  truth  which  is  uppermost  in  the  con- 
sciousness ;  in  poetry  the  individual  form  in  which  truth  is  clothed.  With  the 
ancients,  and  not  less  with  the  elder  dramatists  of  England  and  France,  both 
comedy  and  tragedy  were  considered  as  kinds  of  poetry.  They  neither  sought 
in  comedy  to  make  us  laugh  merely  ;  much  less  to  make  us  laugh  by  wry  faces, 
accidents  of  jargon,  slang  phrases  for  the  day,  or  the  clothing  of  common-place 
morals  in  metaphors  drawn  from  the  shops  or  mechanic  occupations  of  their 
characters.  Nor  did  they  condescend  in  tragedy  to  wheedle  away  the  applause 
of  the  spectators,  by  representing  before  them  facsimiles  of  their  own  mean 
selves  in  all  their  existing  meanness,  or  to  work  on  their  sluggish  sympathies  by 
a  pathos  not  a  whit  more  respectable  than  the  maudlin  tears  of  drunkenness. 
Their  tragic  scenes  were  meant  to  affect  us  indeed ;  but  yet  within  the  bounds 
of  pleasure,  and  in  union  with  the  activity  both  of  our  understanding  and 
imagination.  They  wished  to  transport  the  mind  to  a  sense  of  its  possible  great- 
ness, and  to  implant  the  germs  of  that  greatness,  during  the  temporary  oblivion 
of  the  worthless  "thing  we  are,"  and  of  the  peculiar  state  in  which  each  man 
happens  to  be,  suspending  our  individual  recollections  and  lulling  them  to  sleep 
amid  the  music  of  nobler  thoughts.  The  Friend. 


"REAL"   AND  "RUSTIC"  LIFE  315 

of  a  known  and  abiding  class,  and  their  manners  and  sentiments 
the  natural  product  of  circumstances  common  to  the  class.  Take 
Michael  for  instance : 

An  old  man  stout  of  heart  and  strong  of  limb: 
[Quotation  of  some  40  lines. ,] 

On  the  other  hand,  in  the  poems  which  are  pitched  at  a  lower 
note,  as  the  Harry  Gill,  the  Idiot  Boy,  etc.,  the  feelings  are  those 
of  human  nature  in  general ;  though  the  poet  has  judiciously  laid 
the  scene  in  the  country,  in  order  to  place  himself  in  the  vicinity 
of  interesting  images,  without  the  necessity  of  ascribing  a  senti- 
mental perception  of  their  beauty  to  the  persons  of  his  drama.  In 
the  Idiot  Boy,  indeed,  the  mother's  character  is  not  so  much  a  real 
and  native  product  of  a  "  situation  where  the  essential  passions  of 
the  heart  find  a  better  soil,  in  which  they  can  attain  their  maturity 
and  speak  a  plainer  and  more  emphatic  language,"  as  it  is  an 
impersonation  of  an  instinct  abandoned  by  judgment.  Hence  the 
two  following  charges  seem  to  me  not  wholly  groundless ;  at  least, 
they  are  the  only  plausible  objections  which  I  have  heard  to  that 
fine  poem.  The  one  is,  that  the  author  has  not,  in  the  poem  itself, 
taken  sufficient  care  to  preclude  from  the  reader's  fancy  the  dis- 
gusting images  of  ordinary,  morbid  idiocy,  which  yet  it  was  by  no 
means  his  intention  to  represent.  He  has  even  by  the  "  burr,  burr, 
burr,"  upcounteracted  by  any  preceding  description  of  the  boy's 
beauty,  assisted  in  recalling  them.  The  other  is,  that  the  idiocy 
of  the  boy  is  so  evenly  balanced  by  the  folly  of  the  mother,  as  to 
present  to  the  general  reader  rather  a  laughable  burlesque  on  the 
blindness  of  anile  dotage,  than  an  analytic  display  of  maternal 
affection  in  its  ordinary  workings. 

In  The  Thorn,  the  poet  himself  acknowledges  in  a  note  the 
necessity  of  an  introductory  poem,  in  which  he  should  have  pour- 
trayed  the  character  of  the  person  from  whom  the  words  of  the 
poem  are  supposed  to  proceed :  a  superstitious  man  moderately 
imaginative,  of  slow  faculties  and  deep  feelings,  "a  captain  of  a 
small  trading  vessel,  for  example,  who,  being  past  the  middle  age 
of  life,  had  retired  upon  an  annuity,  or  small  independent  income, 
to  some  village  or  country  town  of  which  he  was  not  a  native,  or 


316         COLERIDGE  O7sT   WORDSWORTH   AND  POETRY 

in  which  he  had  not  been  accustomed  to  live.  Such  men,  having 
nothing  to  do,  become  credulous  and  talkative  from  indolence." 
But  in  a  poem,  still  more  in  a  lyric  poem  (and  the  Nurse  in  Shakes- 
peare's Romeo  and  Juliet  alone  prevents  me  from  extending  the 
remark  even  to  dramatic  poetry,  if  indeed  the  Nurse  itself  can  be 
deemed  altogether  a  case  in  point),  it  is  not  possible  to  imitate 
truly  a  dull  and  garrulous  discourser  without  repeating  the  effects 
of  dulness  and  garrulity.  However  this  may  be,  I  dare  assert, 
that  the  parts  (and  these  form  the  far  larger  portion  of  the  whole) 
which  might  as  well  or  still  better  have  proceeded  from  the  poet's 
own  imagination,  and  have  been  spoken  in  his  own  character,  are 
those  which  have  given,  and  which  will  continue  to  give,  universal 
delight ;  and  that  the  passages  exclusively  appropriate  to  the  sup- 
posed narrator,  such  as  the  last  couplet  of  the  third  stanza,*  the 
seven  last  lines  of  the  tenth, f  and  the  five  following  stanzas,  with 
the  exception  of  the  four  admirable  lines  at  the  commencement  of 
the  fourteenth,  are  felt  by  many  unprejudiced  and  unsophisticated 
hearts,  as  sudden  and  unpleasant  sinkings  from  the  height  to 
which  the  poet  had  previously  lifted  them,  and  to  which  he  again 
reelevates  both  himself  and  his  reader. 

If  then  I  am  compelled  to  doubt  the  theory,  by  which  the 
choice  of  characters  was  to  be  directed,  not  only  a  priori,  from 
grounds  of  reason,  but  both  from  the  few  instances  in  which  the 
poet  himself  need  be  supposed  to  have  been  governed  by  it,  and 
from  the  comparative  inferiority  of  those  instances ;  still  more 
must  I  hesitate  in  my  assent  to  the  sentence  which  immediately 
follows  the  former  citation,  and  which  I  can  neither  admit  as  par- 
ticular fact,  or  as  general  rule.  "  The  language  too  of  these  men  is 
adopted  (purified  indeed  from  what  appear  to  be  its  real  defects, 
from  all  lasting  and  rational  causes  of  dislike  or  disgust)  because 
such  men  hourly  communicate  with  the  best  objects  from  which 
the  best  part  of  language  is  originally  derived ;  and  because,  from 

*  I've  measured  it  from  side  to  side; 

'T  is  three  feet  long,  and  two  feet  wide, 
t  Nay,  rack  your  brain  —  'tis  all  in  vain, 

I  '11  tell  you  every  thing  I  know ; 
[Quotation  of  some  50  lines. ,] 


"REAL"  AND  "RUSTIC"  LIFE  317 

their  rank  in  society,  and  the  sameness  and  narrow  circle  of  their 
intercourse,  being  less  under  the  action  of  social  vanity,  they  con- 
vey their  feelings  and  notions  in  simple  and  unelaborated  expres- 
sions." To  this  I  reply,  that  a  rustic's  language,  purified  from  all 
provincialism  and  grossness,  and  so  far  reconstructed  as  to  be  made 
consistent  with  the  rules  of  grammar  (which  are  in  essence  no  other 
than  the  laws  of  universal  logic,  applied  to  psychological  materials), 
will  not  differ  from  the  language  of  any  other  man  of  common 
sense,  however  learned  or  refined  he  may  be,  except  as  far  as  the 
notions  which  the  rustic  has  to  convey  are  fewer  and  more  indis- 
criminate. This  will  become  still  clearer,  if  we  add  the  considera- 
tion (equally  important  though  less  obvious)  that  the  rustic,  from 
the  more  imperfect  development  of  his  faculties,  and  from  the 
lower  state  of  their  cultivation,  aims  almost  solely  to  convey  insu- 
lated facts,  either  those  of  his  scanty  experience  or  his  traditional 
belief;  while  the  educated  man  chiefly  seeks  to  discover  and 
express  those  connections  of  things,  or  those  relative  bearings  of 
fact  to  fact,  from  which  some  more  or  less  general  law  is  deducible. 
For  facts  are  valuable  to  a  wise  man,  chiefly  as  they  lead  to  the 
discovery  of  the  indwelling  law,  which  is  the  true  being  of  things, 
the  sole  solution  of  their  modes  of  existence,  and  in  the  knowledge 
of  which  consists  our  dignity  and  our  power. 

As  little  can  I  agree  with  the  assertion,  that  from,  the  objects 
with  which  the  rustic  hourly  communicates  the  best  part  of  langu- 
age is  formed.  For,  first,  if  to  communicate  with  an  object  implies 
such  an  acquaintance  with  it  as  renders  it  capable  of  being  dis- 
criminafcely  reflected  on,  the  distinct  knowledge  of  an  uneducated 
rustic  would  furnish  a  very  scanty  vocabulary.  The  few  things, 
and  modes  of  action,  requisite  for  his  bodily  conveniences  would 
alone  be  individualized ;  while  all  the  rest  of  nature  would  be 
expressed  by  a  small  number  of  confused  general  terms.  Secondly, 
I  deny  that  the  words  and  combinations  of  words  derived  from  the 
objects  with  which  the  rustic  is  familiar,  whether  with  distinct  or 
confused  knowledge,  can  be  justly  said  to  form  the  best  part  of 
language.  It  is  more  than  probable,  that  many  classes  of  the  brute 
creation  possess  discriminating  sounds,  by  which  they  can  convey 
to  each  other  notices  of  such  objects  as  concern  their  food,  shelter, 


318        COLERIDGE  ON  WORDSWORTH  AND  POETRY 

or  safety.  Yet  we  hesitate  to  call  the  aggregate  of  such  sounds  a 
language  otherwise  than  metaphorically.  The  best  part  of  human 
language,  properly  so  called,  is  derived  from  reflection  on  the  acts 
of  the  mind  itself.  It  is  formed  by  a  voluntary  appropriation  of 
fixed  symbols  to  internal  acts,  to  processes  and  results  of  imagi- 
nation, the  greater  part  of  which  have  no  place  in  the  conscious- 
ness of  uneducated  man ;  though  in  civilized  society,  by  imitation 
and  passive  remembrance  of  what  they  hear  from  their  religious 
instructors  and  other  superiors,  the  most  uneducated  share  in 
the  harvest  which  they  neither  sowed  or  reaped.  If  the  history 
of  the  phrases  in  hourly  currency  among  our  peasants  were  traced, 
a  person  not  previously  aware  of  the  fact  would  be  surprised  at 
finding  so  large  a  number,  which  three  or  four  centuries  ago  were 
the  exclusive  property  of  the  universities  and  the  schools,  and  at  the 
commencement  of  the  Reformation  had  been  transferred  from  the 
school  to  the  pulpit,  and  thus  gradually  passed  into  common  life. 
The  extreme  difficulty,  and  often  the  impossibility,  of  finding  words 
for  the  simplest  moral  and  intellectual  processes  in  the  languages 
of  uncivilized  tribes  has  proved  perhaps  the  weightiest  obstacle 
to  the  progress  of  our  most  zealous  and  adroit  missionaries.  Yet 
these  tribes  are  surrounded  by  the  same  nature  as  our  peasants  are ; 
but  in  still  more  impressive  forms ;  and  they  are,  moreover,  obliged 
to  particularize  many  more  of  them.  When  therefore  Mr.  Words- 
worth adds,  "accordingly  such  a  language  "  (meaning,  as  before,  the 
language  of  rustic  life  purified  from  provincialism),  "  arising  out 
of  repeated  experience  and  regular  feelings,  is  a  more  permanent, 
and  a  far  more  philosophical,  language  than  that  which  is  frequently 
substituted  for  it  by  poets,  who  think  they  are  conferring  honour 
upon  themselves  and  their  art  in  proportion  as  they  indulge  in 
arbitrary  and  capricious  habits  of  expression  " ;  it  may  be  answered, 
that  the  language  which  he  has  in  view  can  be  attributed  to  rustics 
with  no  greater  right  than  the  style  of  Hooker  or  Bacon  to  Tom 
Brown  or  Sir  Roger  L'Estrange.  Doubtless,  if  what  is  peculiar 
to  each  were  omitted  in  each,  the  result  must  needs  be  the  same. 
Further,  that  the  poet  who  uses  an  illogical  diction,  or  a  style  fitted 
to  excite  only  the  low  and  changeable  pleasure  of  wonder  by  means 
of  groundless  novelty,  substitutes  a  language  of  folly  and  vanity, 


"REAL"  AND  "RUSTIC"  LIFE  319 

not  for  that  of  the  rustic,  but  for  that  of  good  sense  and  natural 
feeling. 

Here  let  me  be  permitted  to  remind  the  reader,  that  the  positions 
which  I  controvert  are  contained  in  the  sentences  —  "  a  selection 
of  the  real  language  of  men"  ;  —  "the  language  of  these  men  [i.e., 
men  in  low  and  rustic  life]  I  propose  to  myself  to  imitate,  and  as 
far  as  possible  to  adopt  the  very  language  of  men."  "  Between  the 
language  of  prose  and  that  of  metrical  composition  there  neither  is, 
nor  can  be,  any  essential  difference."  It  is  against  these  exclusively 
that  my  opposition  is  directed. 

I  object,  in  the  very  first  instance,  to  an  equivocation  in  the  use 
of  the  word  "real."  Every  man's  language  varies,  according  to 
the  extent  of  his  knowledge,  the  activity  of  his  faculties,  and  the 
depth  or  quickness  of  his  feelings.  Every  man's  language  has,  first, 
its  individualities ;  secondly,  the  common  properties  of  the  class  to 
which  he  belongs ;  and  thirdly,  words  and  phrases  of  universal  use. 
The  language  of  Hooker,  Bacon,  Bishop  Taylor,  and  Burke  differs 
from  the  common  language  of  the  learned  class  only  by  the  superior 
number  and  novelty  of  the  thoughts  and  relations  which  they  had 
to  convey.  The  language  of  Algernon  Sidney  differs  not  at  all  from 
that  which  every  well-educated  gentleman  would  wish  to  write,  and 
(with  due  allowances  for  the  undeliberateness  and  less  connected 
train  of  thinking  natural  and  proper  to  conversation)  such  as  he 
would  wish  to  talk.  Neither  one  or  the  other  differ[s]  half  as  much 
from  the  general  language  of  cultivated  society  as  the  language  of 
Mr.  Wordsworth's  homeliest  composition  differs  from  that  of  a 
common  peasant.  For  "real,"  therefore,  we  must  substitute  ordi- 
nary, or  lingua  communis.  And  this,  we  have  proved,  is  no  more  to 
be  found  in  the  phraseology  of  low  and  rustic  life  than  in  that  of  any 
other  class.  Omit  the  peculiarities  of  each,  and  the  result  of  course 
must  be  common  to  all.  And  assuredly  the  omissions  and  changes 
to  be  made  in  the  language  of  rustics,  before  it  could  be  transferred 
to  any  species  of  poem,  except  the  drama  or  other  professed  imita- 
tion, are  at  least  as  numerous  and  weighty  as  would  be  required  in 
adapting  to  the  same  purpose  the  ordinary  language  of  tradesmen  and 
manufacturers.  Not  to  mention  that  the  language  so  highly  extolled 
by  Mr.  Wordsworth  varies  in  every  county,  nay,  in  every  village, 


320        COLERIDGE  ON  WORDSWORTH  AND  POETRY 

according  to  the  accidental  character  of  the  clergyman,  the  existence 
or  noii-existence  of  schools ;  or  even,  perhaps,  as  the  exciseman, 
publican,  or  barber  happen  to  be,  or  not  to  be,  zealous  politicians, 
and  readers  of  the  weekly  newspaper  pro  bono  publico.  Anterior  to 
cultivation  the  lingua  communis  of  every  country,  as  Dante  has  well 
observed,  exists  everywhere  in  parts,  and  nowhere  as  a  whole. 

Neither  is  the  case  rendered  at  all  more  tenable  by  the  addition 
of  the  words,  "in  a  state  of  excitement."  For  the  nature  of  a 
man's  words,  when  he  is  strongly  affected  by  joy,  grief,  or  anger, 
must  necessarily  depend  on  the  number  and  quality  of  the  general 
truths,  conceptions,  and  images,  and  of  the  words  expressing  them, 
with  which  his  mind  had  been  previously  stored.  For  the  property 
of  passion  is  not  to  create,  but  to  set  in  increased  activity.  At 
least,  whatever  new  connections  of  thoughts  or  images,  or  (which  is 
equally,  if  not  more  than  equally,  the  appropriate  effect  of  strong 
excitement)  whatever  generalizations  of  truth  or  experience  the 
heat  of  passion  may  produce,  yet  the  terms  of  their  conveyance 
must  have  preexisted  in  his  former  conversations,  and  are  only 
collected  and  crowded  together  by  the  unusual  stimulation.  It  is 
indeed  very  possible  to  adopt  in  a  poem  the  unmeaning  repetitions, 
habitual  phrases,  and  other  blank  counters  which  an  unfurnished 
or  confused  understanding  interposes  at  short  intervals  in  order 
to  keep  hold  of  his  subject,  which  is  still  slipping  from  him,  and  to 
give  him  time  for  recollection ;  or  in  mere  aid  of  vacancy,  as  in  the 
scanty  companies  of  a  country  stage  the  same  player  pops  backwards 
and  forwards,  in  order  to  prevent  the  appearance  of  empty  spaces, 
in  the  processions  of  Macbeth  or  Henry  VIIL  But  what  assistance 
to  the  poet,  or  ornament  to  the  poem,  these  can  supply,  I  am  at  a 
loss  to  conjecture.  Nothing  assuredly  can  differ  either  in  origin  or 
in  mode  more  widely  from  the  apparent  tautologies  of  intense  and 
turbulent  feeling,  in  which  the  passion  is  greater  and  of  longer 
endurance  than  to  be  exhausted  or  satisfied  by  a  single  representa- 
tion of  the  image  or  incident  exciting  it.  Such  repetitions  I  admit 
to  be  a  beauty  of  the  highest  kind ;  as  illustrated  by  Mr.  Words- 
worth himself  from  the  song  of  Deborah.  "At  her  feet  he  bowed, 
he  fell,  he  lay  down  :  at  her  feet  he  bowed,  he  fell :  where  he  bowed, 
there  he  fell  down  dead."  —  Judges  v.  27. 


METRICAL  COMPOSITION  321 

CHAPTER   XVIII.  —  METRICAL    COMPOSITION    ESSENTIALLY 
DIFFERENT   FROM    THAT    OF    PROSE 

I  conclude,  therefore,  that  the  attempt  is  impracticable ;  and  that, 
were  it  not  impracticable,  it  would  still  be  useless.  For  the  very 
power  of  making  the  selection  implies  the  previous  possession  of 
the  language  selected.  Or  where  can  the  poet  have  lived  ?  And  by 
what  rules  could  he  direct  his  choice,  which  would  not  have  enabled 
him  to  select  and  arrange  his  words  by  the  light  of  his  own  judg- 
ment ?  We  do  not  adopt  the  language  of  a  class  by  the  mere 
adoption  of  such  words  exclusively  as  that  class  would  use,  or  at 
least  understand  ;  but  likewise  by  following  the  order  in  which  the 
words  of  such  men  are  wont  to  succeed  each  other.  Now  this  order, 
in  the  intercourse  of  uneducated  men,  is  distinguished  from  the 
diction  of  their  superiors  in  knowledge  and  power  by  the  greater 
disjunction  and  separation  in  the  component  parts  of  that,  whatever 
it  be,  which  they  wish  to  communicate.  There  is  a  want  of  that 
prospectiveness  of  mind,  that  surview,  which  enables  a  man  to  fore- 
see the  whole  of  what  he  is  to  convey,  appertaining  to  any  one 
point ;  and  by  this  means  so  to  subordinate  and  arrange  the  differ- 
ent parts  according  to  their  relative  importance,  as  to  convey  it  at 
once,  and  as  an  organized  whole. 

Now  I  will  take  the  first  stanza,  on  which  I  have  chanced  to  open, 
in  the  Lyrical  Ballads.  It  is  one  of  the  most  simple  and  the  least 
peculiar  in  its  language  : 

In  distant  countries  I  have  been, 
And  yet  I  have  not  often  seen 
A  healthy  man,  a  man  full  grown, 
Weep  in  the  public  roads,  alone. 
But  such  a  one,  on  English  ground, 
And  in  the  broad  highway,  I  met ; 
Along  the  broad  highway  he  came, 
His  cheeks  with  tears  were  wet. 
Sturdy  he  seemed,  though  he  was  sad, 
And  in  his  arms  a  lamb  he  had. 

The  words  here  are  doubtless  such  as  are  current  in  all  ranks  of 
life  :  and  of  course  not  less  so  in  the  hamlet  and  cottage,  than  in 


322        COLERIDGE  ON  WORDSWORTH  AND  POETRY 

the  shop,  manufactory,  college,  or  palace.  But  is  this  the  order  in 
which  the  rustic  would  have  placed  the  words  ?  I  am  grievously 
deceived,  if  the  following  less  compact  mode  of  commencing  the 
same  tale  be  not  a  far  more  faithful  copy.  "  I  have  been  in  a  many 
parts  far  and  near,  and  I  don't  know  that  I  ever  saw  before  a  man 
crying  by  himself  in  the  public  road;  a  grown  man  I  mean,  that 
was  neither  sick  nor  hurt,"  etc.,  etc.  But  when  I  turn  to  the 
following  stanza  in  The  Thorn  : 

At  all  times  of  the  day  and  night 

This  wretched  woman  thither  goes, 

And  she  is  known  to  every  star 

And  every  wind  that  blows : 

And  there  beside  the  thorn  she  sits, 

When  the  blue  day-light's  in  the  skies: 

And  when  the  whirlwind's  on  the  hill, 

Or  frosty  air  is  keen  and  still; 

And  to  herself  she  cries, 

Oh  misery  !  Oh  misery  ! 

Oh  woe  is  me !  Oh  misery ! 

and  compare  this  with  the  language  of  ordinary  men,  or  with  that 
which  I  can  conceive  at  all  likely  to  proceed,  in  real  life,  from  such 
a  narrator  as  is  supposed  in  the  note  to  the  poem  —  compare  it 
either  in  the  succession  of  the  images  or  of  the  sentences  —  I  am 
reminded  of  the  sublime  prayer  and  hymn  of  praise  which  Milton, 
in  opposition  to  an  established  liturgy,  presents  as  a  fair  specimen 
of  common  extemporary  devotion,  and  such  as  we  might  expect  to 
hear  from  every  self-inspired  minister  of  a  conventicle !  And  I 
reflect  with  delight,  how  little  a  mere  theory,  though  of  his  own 
workmanship,  interferes  with  the  processes  of  genuine  imagination 
in  a  man  of  true  poetic  genius,  who  possesses,  as  Mr.  Wordsworth, 
if  ever  man  did,  most  assuredly  does  possess, 

The  Vision  and  the  Faculty  divine. 

One  point  then  alone  remains,  but  that  the  most  important ;  its 
examination  having  been,  indeed,  my  chief  inducement  for  the  pre- 
ceding inquisition.  "  There  neither  is  or  can  be  any  essential  dif- 
ference between  the  language  of  prose  and  metrical  composition." 
Such  is  Mr.  Wordsworth's  assertion.  Now  prose  itself,  at  least  in 


METRICAL  COMPOSITION  323 

all  argumentative  and  consecutive  works,  differs,  and  ought  to  differ, 
from  the  language  of  conversation ;  even  as  reading  ought  to  differ 
from  talking.  Unless,  therefore,  the  difference  denied  be  that  of 
the  mere  words,  as  materials  common  to  all  styles  of  writing,  and 
not  of  the  style  itself  in  the  universally  admitted  sense  of  the  term, 
it  might  be  naturally  presumed  that  there  must  exist  a  still  greater 
between  the  ordonnance  of  poetic  composition  and  that  of  prose, 
than  is  expected  to  distinguish  prose  from  ordinary  conversation. 

There  are  not,  indeed,  examples  wanting  in  the  history  of  litera- 
ture, of  apparent  paradoxes  that  have  summoned  the  public  wonder 
as  new  and  startling  truths,  but  which  on  examination  have  shrunk 
into  tame  and  harmless  truisms ;  as  the  eyes  of  a  cat,  seen  in  the 
dark,  have  been  mistaken  for  flames  of  fire.  But  Mr.  Wordsworth 
is  among  the  last  men  to  whom  a  delusion  of  this  kind  would  be 
attributed  by  any  one  who  had  enjoyed  the  slightest  opportunity 
of  understanding  his  mind  and  character.  Where  an  objection  has 
been  anticipated  by  such  an  author  as  natural,  his  answer  to  it 
must  needs  be  interpreted  in  some  sense  which  either  is,  or  has  been, 
or  is  capable  of  being  controverted.  My  object,  then,  must  be  to 
discover  some  other  meaning  for  the  term  "  essential  difference  "  in 
this  place,  exclusive  of  the  indistinction  and  community  of  the  words 
themselves.  For  whether  there  ought  to  exist  a  class  of  words  in 
the  English  in  any  degree  resembling  the  poetic  dialect  of  the  Greek 
and  Italian,  is  a  question  of  very  subordinate  importance.  The 
number  of  such  words  would  be  small  indeed  in  our  language ;  and 
even  in  the  Italian  and  Greek,  they  consist  not  so  much  of  different 
words  as  of  slight  differences  in  the  forms  of  declining  and  conju- 
gating the  same  words ;  forms,  doubtless,  which  having  been,  at 
some  period  more  or  less  remote,  the  common  grammatic  flexions 
of  some  tribe  or  province,  had  been  accidentally  appropriated  to 
poetry  by  the  general  admiration  of  certain  master  intellects,  the 
first  established  lights  of  inspiration,  to  whom  that  dialect  happened 
to  be  native. 

Essence,  in  its  primary  signification,  means  the  principle  of  indi- 
viduation,  the  inmost  principle  of  the  possibility  of  any  thing,  as 
that  particular  thing.  It  is  equivalent  to  the  idea  of  a  thing,  when- 
ever we  use  the  word  idea  with  philosophic  precision.  Existence, 


324         COLERIDGE   ON   WORDSWORTH  AND  POETRY 

on  the  other  hand,  is  distinguished  from  essence  by  the  superinduc- 
tion  of  reality.  Thus  we  speak  of  the  essence  and  essential  prop- 
erties of  a  circle ;  but  we  do  not  therefore  assert,  that  any  thing 
which  really  exists  is  mathematically  circular.  Thus  too,  without 
any  tautology,  we  contend  for  the  existence  of  the  Supreme  Being ; 
that  is,  for  a  reality  correspondent  to  the  idea.  There  is,  next, 
a  secondary  use  of  the  word  essence,  in  which  it  signifies  the  point 
or  ground  of  contradistinction  between  two  modifications  of  the 
same  substance  or  subject.  Thus  we  should  be  allowed  to  say,  that 
the  style  of  architecture  of  Westminster  Abbey  is  essentially  dif- 
ferent from  that  of  Saint  Paul's,  even  though  both  had  been  built 
with  blocks  cut  into  the  same  form,  and  from  the  same  quarry. 
Only  in  this  latter  sense  of  the  term  must  it  have  been  denied  by 
Mr.  Wordsworth  (for  in  this  sense  alone  is  it  affirmed  by  the  general 
opinion)  that  the  language  of  poetry  (i.  e.,  the  formal  construction, 
or  architecture,  of  the  words  and  phrases)  is  essentially  different 
from  that  of  prose.  Now  the  burthen  of  the  proof  lies  with  the 
oppugner,  not  with  the  supporters  of  the  common  belief.  Mr. 
Wordsworth,  in  consequence,  assigns  as  the  proof  of  his  position, 
"that  not  only  the  language  of  a  large  portion  of  every  good 
poem,  even  of  the  most  elevated  character,  must  necessarily,  except 
with  reference  to  the  metre,  in  no  respect  differ  from  that  of 
good  prose,  but  likewise  that  some  of  the  most  interesting  parts 
of  the  best  poems  will  be  found  to  be  strictly  the  language  of 
prose,  when  prose  is  well  written.  The  truth  of  this  assertion 
might  be  demonstrated  by  innumerable  passages  from  almost  all 
the  poetical  writings  even  of  Milton  himself."  He  then  quotes 
Gray's  sonnet: 

In  vain  to  me  the  smiling  mornings  shine, 
And  reddening  Phoebus  lifts  his  golden  fire; 
The  birds  in  vain  their  amorous  descant  join 
Or  cheerful  fields  resume  their  green  attire ; 
These  ears,  alas  !  for  other  notes  repine ; 
A  different  object  do  these  eyes  require; 
My  lonely  anguish  melts  no  heart  but  mine, 
And  in  my  breast  the  imperfect  joys  expire  I 
Yet  morning  smiles  the  busy  race  to  cheer, 
And  new-born  pleasure  brings  to  happier  men ; 


METRICAL  COMPOSITION  325 

The  fields  to  all  their  wonted  tribute  bear, 
To  warm  their  little  loves  the  birds  complain. 
/  fruitless  mourn  to  him  who  cannot  hear, 
And  weep  the  more  because  I  weep  in  vain; 

and  adds  the  following  remark :  "  It  will  easily  be  perceived,  that 
the  only  part  of  this  sonnet  which  is  of  any  value  is  the  lines 
printed  in  italics.  It  is  equally  obvious  that,  except  in  the  rhyme, 
and  in  the  use  of  the  single  word  '  fruitless '  for  fruitlessly,  which 
is  so  far  a  defect,  the  language  of  these  lines  does  in  no  respect 
differ  from  that  of  prose." 

An  idealist  defending  his  system  by  the  fact,  that  when  asleep 
we  often  believe  ourselves  awake,  was  well  answered  by  his  plain 
neighbour,  "  Ah !  but  when  awake  do  we  ever  believe  ourselves 
asleep?"  Things  identical  must  be  convertible.  The  preceding 
passage  seems  to  rest  on  a  similar  sophism.  For  the  question  is 
not,  whether  there  may  not  occur  in  prose  an  order  of  words,  which 
would  be  equally  proper  in  a  poem ;  nor  whether  there  are  not 
beautiful  lines  and  sentences  of  frequent  occurrence  in  good  poems, 
which  would  be  equally  becoming  as  well  as  beautiful  in  good 
prose ;  for  neither  the  one  or  the  other  has  ever  been  either  denied 
or  doubted  by  any  one.  The  true  question  must  be,  whether  there 
are  not  modes  of  expression,  a  construction,  and  an  order  of  sen- 
tences, which  are  in  their  fit  and  natural  place  in  a  serious  prose 
composition,  but  would  be  disproportionate  and  heterogeneous  in 
metrical  poetry;  and,  vice  versa,  whether  in  the  language  of  a 
serious  poem  there  may  not  be  an  arrangement  both  of  words  and 
sentences,  and  a  use  and  selection  of  (what  are  called)  figures  of 
speech,  both  as  to  their  kind,  their  frequency,  and  their  occasions, 
which  on  a  subject  of  equal  weight  would  be  vicious  and  alien  in 
correct  and  manly  prose.  I  contend,  that  in  both  cases  this  unfit- 
ness  of  each  for  the  place  of  the  other  frequently  will  and  ought 
to  exist. 

And,  first,  from  the  origin  of  metre.  This  I  would  trace  to  the 
balance  in  the  mind  effected  by  that  spontaneous  effort  which 
strives  to  hold  in  check  the  workings  of  passion.  It  might  be 
easily  explained  likewise  in  what  manner  this  salutary  antagonism 
is  assisted  by  the  very  state  which  it  counteracts ;  and  how  this 


326         COLERIDGE  ON  WORDSWORTH   AND  POETRY 

balance  of  antagonists  became  organized  into  metre  (in  the  usual 
acceptation  of  that  term)  by  a  supervening  act  of  the  will  and 
judgment,  consciously  and  for  the  foreseen  purpose  of  pleasure. 
Assuming  these  principles  as  the  data  of  our  argument,  we  deduce 
from  them  two  legitimate  conditions,  which  the  critic  is  entitled 
to  expect  in  every  metrical  work.  First,  that  as  the  elements  of 
metre  owe  their  existence  to  a  state  of  increased  excitement,  so 
the  metre  itself  should  be  accompanied  by  the  natural  language  of 
excitement.  Secondly,  that  as  these  elements  are  formed  into 
metre  artificially,  by  a  voluntary  act,  with  the  design  and  for  the 
purpose  of  blending  delight  with  emotion,  so  the  traces  of  present 
volition  should  throughout  the  metrical  language  be  proportionally 
discernible.  Now  these  two  conditions  must  be  reconciled  and 
co-present.  There  must  be  not  only  a  partnership,  but  a  union ; 
an  interpenetration  of  passion  and  of  will,  of  spontaneous  impulse 
and  of  voluntary  purpose.  Again,  this  union  can  be  manifested 
only  in  a  frequency  of  forms  and  figures  of  speech  (originally  the 
offspring  of  passion,  but  now  the  adopted  children  of  power)  greater 
than  would  be  desired  or  endured,  where  the  emotion  is  not  volun- 
tarily encouraged,  and  kept  up  for  the  sake  of  that  pleasure,  which 
such  emotion  so  tempered  and  mastered  by  the  will  is  found  capable 
of  communicating.  It  not  only  dictates,  but  of  itself  tends  to  pro- 
duce, a  more  frequent  employment  of  picturesque  and  vivifying 
language  than  would  be  natural  in  any  other  case  in  which  there 
did  not  exist,  as  there  does  in  the  present,  a  previous  and  well 
understood,  though  tacit,  compact  between  the  poet  and  his  reader, 
that  the  latter  is  entitled  to  expect,  and  the  former  bound  to  supply, 
this  species  and  degree  of  pleasurable  excitement.  We  may  in 
some  measure  apply  to  this  union  the  answer  of  Polixenes,  in  the 
Winter's  Tale,  to  Perdita's  neglect  of  the  streaked  gilly-flowers, 
because  she  had  heard  it  said  : 

There  is  an  art  \vhich  in  their  piedness  shares 
With  great  creating  nature. 
Pol.  Say  there  be. 

Yet  nature  is  made  better  by  no  mean, 
But  nature  makes  that  mean.     So  over  that  art, 
Which  you  say  adds  to  nature,  is  an  art 


METRICAL  COMPOSITION  327 

That  nature  makes !     You  see,  sweet  maid,  we  marry 

A  gentler  scion  to  the  wildest  stock: 

And  make  conceive  a  bark  of  baser  kind 

By  bud  of  nobler  race.     This  is  an  art, 

Which  does  mend  nature  —  change  it  rather;  but 

The  art  itself  is  nature. 

Secondly,  I  argue  from  the  effects  of  metre.  As  far  as  metre 
acts  in  and  for  itself,  it  tends  to  increase  the  vivacity  and  suscepti- 
bility both  of  the  general  feelings  and  of  the  attention.  This  effect 
it  produces  by  the  continued  excitement  of  surprise,  and  by  the 
quick  reciprocations  of  curiosity  still  gratified  and  still  reexcited, 
which  are  too  slight  indeed  to  be  at  any  one  moment  objects  of 
distinct  consciousness,  yet  become  considerable  in  their  aggregate 
influence.  As  a  medicated  atmosphere,  or  as  wine  during  animated 
conversation,  they  act  powerfully,  though  themselves  unnoticed. 
Where,  therefore,  correspondent  food  and  appropriate  matter  are 
not  provided  for  the  attention  and  feelings  thus  roused,  there  must 
needs  be  a  disappointment  felt;  like  that  of  leaping  in  the  dark 
from  the  last  step  of  a  staircase,  when  we  had  prepared  our  muscles 
for  a  leap  of  three  or  four. 

The  discussion  on  the  powers  of  metre  in  the  preface  is  highly 
ingenious,  and  touches  at  all  points  on  truth.  But  I  cannot  find 
any  statement  of  its  powers  considered  abstractly  and  separately. 
On  the  contrary,  Mr.  Wordsworth  seems  always  to  estimate  metre 
by  the  powers  which  it  exerts  during  (and,  as  I  think,  in  conse- 
quence of)  its  combination  with  other  elements  of  poetry.  Thus 
the  previous  difficulty  is  left  unanswered,  what  the  elements  are 
with  which  it  must  be  combined  in  order  to  produce  its  own  effects 
to  any  pleasurable  purpose.  Double  and  trisyllable  rhymes,  indeed, 
form  a  lower  species  of  wit,  and,  attended  to  exclusively  for  their 
own  sake,  may  become  a  source  of  momentary  amusement ;  as  in 
poor  Smart's  distich  to  the  Welch  Squire  who  had  promised  him 
a  hare: 

Tell  me,  thou  son  of  great  Cadwallader ! 

Hast  sent  the  hare  ?  or  hast  thou  swallow'd  her  ? 

But  for  any  poetic  purposes,  metre  resembles  (if  the  aptness  of 
the  simile  may  excuse  its  meanness)  yeast,  worthless  or  disagreeable 


328         COLERIDGE   ON   WORDSWORTH  AND  POETRY 

by  itself,  but  giving  vivacity  and  spirit  to  the  liquor  with  which  it 
is  proportionally  combined. 

The  reference  to  the  Children  in  the  Wood  by  no  means  satisfies 
my  judgment.  We  all  willingly  throw  ourselves  back  for  awhile 
into  the  feelings  of  our  childhood.  This  ballad,  therefore,  we  read 
under  such  recollections  of  our  own  childish  feelings,  as  would 
equally  endear  to  us  poems  which  Mr.  Wordsworth  himself  would 
regard  as  faulty  in  the  opposite  extreme  of  gaudy  and  technical 
ornament.  Before  the  invention  of  printing  and,  in  a  still  greater 
degree,  before  the  introduction  of  writing,  metre,  especially  allitera- 
tive metre  (whether  alliterative  at  the  beginning  of  the  words,  as 
in  Pierce  Plouman,  or  at  the  end  as  in  rhymes),  possessed  an  inde- 
pendent value  as  assisting  the  recollection,  and  consequently  the 
preservation,  of  any  series  of  truths  or  incidents.  But  I  am  not 
convinced  by  the  collation  of  facts  that  the  Children  in  the  Wood 
owes  either  its  preservation  or  its  popularity  to  its  metrical  form. 
Mr.  Marshal's  repository  affords  a  number  of  tales  in  prose  inferior 
in  pathos  and  general  merit,  some  of  as  old  a  date,  and  many  as  widely 
popular.  Tom  Hickathrift,  Jack  the  Giant  Killer,  Goody  Two  Shoes, 
and  Little  Red  Riding  Hood  are  formidable  rivals.  And  that  they 
have  continued  in  prose  cannot  be  fairly  explained  by  the  assump- 
tion that  the  comparative  meanness  of  their  thoughts  and  images 
precluded  even  the  humblest  forms  of  metre.  The  scene  of  Goody 
Two  Shoes  in  the  church  is  perfectly  susceptible  of  metrical  narra- 
tion ;  and  among  the  ®avp.ara  Oavfjiaarorara  even  of  the  present  age, 
I  do  not  recollect  a  more  astonishing  image  than  that  of  the  "  whole 
rookery,  that  flew  out  of  the  giant's  beard,"  scared  by  the  tremen- 
dous voice  with  which  this  monster  answered  the  challenge  of  the 
heroic  Tom  Hickathrift ! 

If  from  these  we  turn  to  compositions  universally,  and  inde- 
pendently of  all  early  associations,  beloved  and  admired,  would  the 
Maria,  the  Monk,  or  the  Poor  Man's  Ass  of  Sterne,  be  read  with 
more  delight,  or  have  a  better  chance  of  immortality,  had  they, 
without  any  change  in  the  diction,  been  composed  in  rhyme,  than 
in  their  present  state  ?  If  I  am  not  grossly  mistaken,  the  general 
reply  would  be  in  the  negative.  Nay,  I  will  confess,  that  in  Mr. 
Wordsworth's  own  volumes,  the  Anecdote  for  Fathers,  Simon  Lee, 


METRICAL  COMPOSITION  329 

Alice  Fell,  the  Beggars,  and  the  Sailor's  Mother,  notwithstanding 
the  beauties  which  are  to  be  found  in  each  of  them  where  the  poet 
interposes  the  music  of  his  own  thoughts,  would  have  been  more 
delightful  to  me  in  prose,  told  and  managed  as  by  Mr.  Wordsworth 
they  would  have  been,  in  a  moral  essay  or  pedestrian  tour. 

Metre  in  itself  is  simply  a  stimulant  of  the  attention,  and  there- 
fore excites  the  question,  Why  is  the  attention  to  be  thus  stimu- 
lated ?  Now  the  question  cannot  be  answered  by  the  pleasure  of 
the  metre  itself :  for  this  we  have  shown  to  be  conditional,  and 
dependent  on  the  appropriateness  of  the  thoughts  and  expressions 
to  which  the  metrical  form  is  superadded.  Neither  can  I  conceive 
any  other  answer  that  can  be  rationally  given,  short  of  this :  I 
write  in  metre"  because  I  am  about  to  use  a  language  different  from 
that  of  prose.  Besides,  where  the  language  is  not  such,  how  inter- 
esting soever  the  reflections  are  that  are  capable  of  being  drawn 
by  a  philosophic  mind  from  the  thoughts  or  incidents  of  the  poem, 
the  metre  itself  must  often  become  feeble.  Take  the  three  last 
stanzas  of  the  Sailor's  Mother,  for  instance.  If  I  could  for  a 
moment  abstract  from  the  effect  produced  on  the  author's  feelings 
as  a  man,  by  the  incident  at  the  time  of  its  real  occurrence,  I  would 
dare  appeal  to  his  own  judgment,  whether  in  the  metre  itself  he 
found  sufficient  reason  for  their  being  written  metrically  ? 

And  thus  continuing,  she  said 

I  had  a  son,  who  many  a  day 

Sailed  on  the  seas ;  but  he  is  dead ; 

In  Denmark  he  was  cast  away : 

And  I  have  travelled  far  as  Hull  to  see 

What  clothes  he  might  have  left,  or  other  property. 

The  bird  and  cage,  they  both  were  his ; 

'T  was  my  son's  bird ;  and  neat  and  trim 

He  kept  it :  many  voyages 

This  singing  bird  hath  gone  with  him ; 

When  last  he  sailed  he  left  the  bird  behind ; 

As  it  might  be,  perhaps,  from  bodings  of  his  mind. 

He  to  a  fellow-lodger's  care 

Had  left  it,  to  be  watched  and  fed, 

Till  he  came  back  again ;  and  there 


330         COLERIDGE  ON  WORDSWORTH   AND  POETRY 

I  found  it  when  my  son  was  dead; 

And  now,  God  help  me  for  my  little  wit! 

I  trail  it  with  me,  Sir!  he  took  so  much  delight  in  it. 

If  disproportioning  the  emphasis  we  read  these  stanzas  so  as  to 
make  the  rhymes  perceptible,  even  trisyllable  rhymes  could  scarcely 
produce  an  equal  sense  of  oddity  and  strangeness,  as  we  feel  here 
in  finding  rhymes  at  all  in  sentences  so  exclusively  colloquial.  I 
would  further  ask  whether,  but  for  that  visionary  state  into  which 
the  figure  of  the  woman  and  the  susceptibility  of  his  own  genius 
had  placed  the  poet's  imagination  (a  state  which  spreads  its  influ- 
ence and  colouring  over  all,  that  coexists  with  the  exciting  cause, 
and  in  which 

The  simplest,  and  the  most  familiar  things 

Gain  a  strange  power  of  spreading  awe  around  them*)  — 

I  would  ask  the  poet  whether  he  would  not  have  felt  an  abrupt 
down-fall  in  these  verses  from  the  preceding  stanza? 

The  ancient  spirit  is  not  dead; 

Old  times,  thought  I,  are  breathing  there ! 

Proud  was  I,  that  my  country  bred 

Such  strength,  a  dignity  so  fair! 

She  begged  an  alms,  like  one  in  poor  estate; 

I  looked  at  her  again,  nor  did  my  pride  abate. 

It  must  not  be  omitted,  and  is  besides  worthy  of  notice,  that 
those  stanzas  furnish  the  only  fair  instance  that  I  have  been  able  to 
discover  in  all  Mr.  Wordsworth's  writings  of  an  actual  adoption,  or 
true  imitation,  of  the  real  and  very  language  of  low  and  rustic  life, 
freed  from  provincialisms. 

*  Altered  from  the  description  of  Night^Mair  in  the  Remorse. 

Oh  Heaven!  'twas  frightful!    Now  run  down  and  stared  at, 

By  hideous  shapes  that  cannot  be  remembered: 

Now  seeing  nothing  and  imagining  nothing: 

But  only  being  afraid  —  stifled  with  fear! 

While  every  goodly  or  familiar  form 

Had  a  strange  power  of  spreading  terror  round  me. 

N.B.  Though  Shakespeare  has  for  his  own  all-justifying  purposes  introduced 
the  Night- Mare  with  her  own  foals,  yet  Mair  means  a  Sister,  or  perhaps  a  Hag. 


METRICAL  COMPOSITION  331 

Thirdly,  I  deduce  the  position  from  all  the  causes  elsewhere 
assigned,  which  render  metre  the  proper  form  of  poetry,  and  poetry 
imperfect  and  defective  without  metre.  Metre  therefore  having 
been  connected  with  poetry  most  often  and  by  a  peculiar  fitness, 
whatever  else  is  combined  with  metre  must,  though  it  be  not  itself 
essentially  poetic,  have  nevertheless  some  property  in  common  with 
poetry,  as  an  intermedium  of  affinity,  a  sort  (if  I  may  dare  borrow  a 
well-known  phrase  from  technical  chemistry)  of  morda\u]nt  between 
it  and  the  superadded  metre.  Now  poetry,  Mr.  Wordsworth  truly 
affirms,  does  always  imply  passion  :  which  word  must  be  here 
understood,  in  its  most  general  sense,  as  an  excited  state  of  the 
feelings  and  faculties.  And  as  every  passion  has  its  proper  pulse, 
so  will  it  likewise  have  its  characteristic  modes  of  expression.  But 
where  there  exists  that  degree  of  genius  and  talent  which  entitles  a 
writer  to  aim  at  the  honours  of  a  poet,  the  very  act  of  poetic  com- 
position itself  is,  and  is  allowed  to  imply  and  to  produce,  an  unusual 
state  of  excitement,  which  of  course  justifies  and  demands  a  corre- 
spondent difference  of  language,  as  truly,  though  not  perhaps  in  as 
marked  a  degree,  as  the  excitement  of  love,  fear,  rage,  or  jealousy. 
The  vividness  of  the  descriptions  or  declamations  in  Donne,  or 
Dryden,  is  as  much  and  as  often  derived  from  the  force  and  fervour 
of  the  describer,  as  from  the  reflections,  forms,  or  incidents  which 
constitute  their  subject  and  materials.  The  wheels  take  fire  from 
the  mere  rapidity  of  their  motion.  To  what  extent,  and  under 
what  modifications,  this  may  be  admitted  to  act,  I  shall  attempt  to 
define  in  an  after  remark  on  Mr.  Wordsworth's  reply  to  this  objec- 
tion, or  rather  on  his  objection  to  this  reply,  as  already  anticipated 
in  his  preface. 

Fourthly,  and  as  intimately  connected  with  this,  if  not  the  same 
argument  in  a  more  general  form,  I  adduce  the  high  spiritual 
instinct  of  the  human  being  impelling  us  to  seek  unity  by  har- 
monious adjustment,  and  thus  establishing  the  principle,  that  all 
the  parts  of  an  organized  whole  must  be  assimilated  to  the  more 
important  and  essential  parts.  This  and  the  preceding  arguments 
may  be  strengthened  by  the  reflection,  that  the  composition  of  a 
poem  is  among  the  imitative  arts  ;  and  that  imitation,  as  opposed 
to  copying,  consists  either  in  the  interfusion  of  the  same  throughout 


332        COLERIDGE  ON  WORDSWORTH  AND  POETRY 

the  radically  different,  or  of  the  different  throughout  a  base 
radically  the  same. 

Lastly,  I  appeal  to  the  practice  of  the  best  poets,  of  all  countries 
and  in  all  ages,  as  authorizing  the  opinion  (deduced  from  all  the 
foregoing)  that  in  every  import  of  the  word  essential,  which  would 
not  here  involve  a  mere  truism,  there  may  be,  is,  and  ought  to  be, 
an  essential  difference  between  the  language  of  prose  and  of  metrical 
composition. 

In  Mr.  Wordsworth's  criticism  of  Gray's  Sonnet,  the  reader's 
sympathy  with  his  praise  or  blame  of  the  different  parts  is  taken 
for  granted  rather  perhaps  too  easily.  He  has  not,  at  least, 
attempted  to  win  or  compel  it  by  argumentative  analysis.  In  my 
conception  at  least,  the  lines  rejected  as  of  no  value  do,  with  the 
exception  of  the  two  first,  differ  as  much  and  as  little  from  the 
language  of  common  life,  as  those  which  he  has  printed  in  italics 
as  possessing  genuine  excellence.  Of  the  five  lines  thus  honourably 
distinguished,  two  of  them  differ  from  prose  even  more  widely  than 
the  lines  which  either  precede  or  follow,  in  the  position  of  the  words : 

A  different  object  do  these  eyes  require; 

My  lonely  anguish  melts  no  heart  but  mine ; 

And  in  my  breast  the  imperfect  joys  expire. 

But  were  it  otherwise,  what  would  this  prove  but  a  truth  of 
which  no  man  ever  doubted  ?  —  videlicet,  that  there  are  sentences, 
which  would  be  equally  in  their  place  both  in  verse  and  prose. 
Assuredly  it  does  not  prove  the  point  which  alone  requires  proof ; 
namely,  that  there  are  not  passages,  which  would  suit  the  one  and 
not  suit  the  other.  The  first  line  of  this  sonnet  is  distinguished 
from  the  ordinary  language  of  men  by  the  epithet  to  morning. 
(For  we  will  set  aside,  at  present,  the  consideration,  that  the 
particular  word  "smiling"  is  hackneyed,  and  —  as  it  involves  a 
sort  of  personification  —  not  quite  congruous  with  the  common 
and  material  attribute  of  shining.)  And,  doubtless,  this  adjunction 
of  epithets  for  the  purpose  of  additional  description,  where  no  parti- 
cular attention  is  demanded  for  the  quality  of  the  thing,  would  be 
noticed  as  giving  a  poetic  cast  to  a  man's  conversation.  Should  the 
sportsman  exclaim,  "  Come  boys  !  the  rosy  morning  calls  you  up," 


METRICAL  COMPOSITION  333 

he  will  be  supposed  to  have  some  song  in  his  head.  But  no  one 
suspects  this  when  he  says,  "  A  wet  morning  shall  not  confine  us  to 
our  beds."  This  then  is  either  a  defect  in  poetry,  or  it  is  not. 
Whoever  should  decide  in  the  affirmative,  I  would  request  him  to 
re-peruse  any  one  poem  of  any  confessedly  great  poet  from  Homer 
to  Milton,  or  from  ^Eschylus  to  Shakespeare ;  and  to  strike  out  (in 
thought  I  mean)  every  instance  of  this  kind.  If  the  number  of  these 
fancied  erasures  did  not  startle  him,  or  if  he  continued  to  deem  the 
work  improved  by  their  total  omission,  he  must  advance  reasons  of 
no  ordinary  strength  and  evidence,  reasons  grounded  in  the  essence 
of  human  nature.  Otherwise  I  should  not  hesitate  to  consider  him 
as  a  man  not  so  much  proof  against  all  authority  as  dead  to  it. 
The  second  line, 

And  reddening  Phoebus  lifts  his  golden  fire, 

has  indeed  almost  as  many  faults  as  words.  But  then  it  is  a  bad 
line,  not  because  the  language  is  distinct  from  that  of  prose,  but 
because  it  conveys  incongruous  images,  because  it  confounds  the 
cause  and  the  effect,  the  real  thing  with  the  personified  represent- 
ative of  the  thing  ;  in  short,  because  it  differs  from  the  language 
of  good  sense.  That  the  "  Phoebus  "  is  hackneyed,  and  a  schoolboy 
image,  is  an  accidental  fault,  dependent  on  the  age  in  which  the 
author  wrote,  and  not  deduced  from  the  nature  of  the  thing.  That 
it  is  part  of  an  exploded  mythology,  is  an  objection  more  deeply 
grounded.  Yet  when  the  torch  of  ancient  learning  was  rekindled, 
so  cheering  were  its  beams,  that  our  eldest  poets,  cut  off  by  Christ- 
ianity from  all  accredited  machinery,  and  deprived  of  all  acknow- 
ledged guardians  and  symbols  of  the  great  objects  of  nature,  were 
naturally  induced  to  adopt,  as  a  poetic  language,  those  fabulous 
personages,  those  forms  of  the  supernatural  in  nature,  which  had 
given  them  such  dear  delight  in  the  poems  of  their  great  masters. 
Nay,  even  at  this  day  what  scholar  of  genial  taste  will  not  so  far 
sympathize  with  them,  as  to  read  with  pleasure  in  Petrarch, 
Chaucer,  or  Spenser,  what  he  would  perhaps  condemn  as  puerile 
in  a  modern  poet  ? 

I  remember  no  poet,  whose  writings  would  safelier  stand  the 
test  of  Mr.   Wordsworth's  theory,  than   Spenser.     Yet  will  Mr. 


334        COLERIDGE  ON  WORDSWORTH  AND  POETRY 

Wordsworth  say,  that  the  style  of  the  following  stanzas  is  either 
undistinguished  from  prose,  and  the  language  of  ordinary  life  ? 
Or  that  it  is  vicious,  and  that  the  stanzas  are  blots  in  the  Faery 
Queen  ? 

By  this  the  northern  waggoner  had  set 

His  sevenfold  teme  behind  the  stedfast  starre, 

That  was  in  ocean  waves  yet  never  wet, 

But  firme  is  fixt  and  sendeth  light  from  farre 

To  all  that  in  the  wild  deep  wandering  arre. 

And  chearfull  chaunticleer  with  his  note  shrill 

Had  warned  once  that  Phoebus'  fiery  carre 

In  hast  was  climbing  up  the  easterne  hill, 

Full  envious  that  night  so  long  his  roome  did  fill. 

Book  I,  Canto  2,  stanza  1. 

At  last  the  golden  orientall  gate 

Of  greatest  heaven  gan  to  open  fayre, 

And  Phoabus  fresh  as  brydegrome  to  his  mate, 

Came  dauncing  forth,  shaking  his  deawie  hayre, 

And  hurl'd  his  glist'ring  beams  through  gloomy  ayre ; 

Which  when  the  wakeful  elfe  perceived,  streightway 

He  started  up,  and  did  him  selfe  prepay  re 

In  sun-bright  armes,  and  battailous  array ; 

For  with  that  pagan  proud  he  combat  will  that  day. 

Book  I,  Canto  5,  stanza  2. 

On  the  contrary,  to  how  many  passages,  both  in  hymn  books  and 
in  blank  verse  poems,  could  I  (were  it  not  invidious)  direct  the 
reader's  attention,  the  style  of  which  is  most  unpoetic,  because,  and 
only  because,  it  is  the  style  of  prose  ?  He  will  not  suppose  me 
capable  of  having  in  my  mind  such  verses  as 

I  put  my  hat  upon  my  head 

And  walked  into  the  Strand ; 
And  there  I  met  another  man, 

Whose  hat  was  in  his  hand. 

To  such  specimens  it  would  indeed  be  a  fair  and  full  reply,  that 
these  lines  are  not  bad  because  they  are  unpoetic,  but  because  they 
are  empty  of  all  sense  and  feeling ;  and  that  it  were  an  idle  attempt 
to  prove  that  "an  ape  is  not  a  Newton,  when  it  is  evident  that 
he  is  not  a  man."  But  the  sense  shall  be  good  and  weighty,  the 


METRICAL   COMPOSITION  335 

language  correct  and  dignified,  the  subject  interesting  and  treated 
with  feeling;  and  yet  the  style  shall,  notwithstanding  all  these 
merits,  be  justly  blameable  as  prosaic,  and  solely  because  the  words 
and  the  order  of  the  words  would  find  their  appropriate  place  in 
prose,  but  are  not  suitable  to  metrical  composition.  The  Civil  Wars 
of  Daniel  is  an  instructive,  and  even  interesting  work :  but  take  the 
following  stanzas  (and  from  the  hundred  instances  which  abound  1 
might  probably  have  selected  others  far  more  striking) : 

And  to  the  end  we  may  with  better  ease 
Discern  the  true  discourse,  vouchsafe  to  shew 
What  were  the  times  foregoing  near  to  these, 
That  these  we  may  with  better  profit  know. 
Tell  how  the  world  fell  into  this  disease; 
And  how  so  great  distempertaure  did  grow; 
So  shall  we  see  with  what  degrees  it  came; 
How  things  at  full  do  soon  wax  out  of  frame. 

Ten  kings  had  from  the  Norman  conqu'ror  reign'd 

With  intermixt  and  variable  fate, 

When  England  to  her  greatest  height  attain'd 

Of  power,  dominion,  glory,  wealth,  and  state ; 

After  it  had  with  much  ado  sustain'd 

The  violence  of  princes  with  debate 

For  titles,  and  the  often  mutinies 

Of  nobles  for  their  ancient  liberties. 

For  first  the  Norman,  conqu'ring  all  by  might, 
By  might  was  forced  to  keep  what  he  had  got; 
Mixing  our  customs  and  the  form  of  right 
With  foreign  constitutions,  he  had  brought; 
Mastering  the  mighty,  humbling  the  poorer  wight, 
By  all  severest  means  that  could  be  wrought; 
And  making  the  succession  doubtful,  rent 
His  new-got  state  and  left  it  turbulent. 

Book  I,  stanzas  7,  8,  9. 

Will  it  be  contended,  on  the  one  side,  that  these  lines  are  mean 
and  senseless  ?  Or  on  the  other,  that  they  are  not  prosaic,  and  for 
that  reason  unpoetic  ?  This  poet's  well-merited  epithet  is  that  of 
the  " well-language d  Daniel";  but  likewise  and  by  the  consent 
of  his  contemporaries  no  less  than  of  all  succeeding  critics,  the 


336         COLERIDGE  ON  WORDSWORTH  AND  POETRY 

"prosaic  Daniel."  Yet  those,  who  thus  designate  this  wise  and 
amiable  writer  from  the  frequent  incorrespondency  of  his  diction 
to  his  metre  in  the  majority  of  his  compositions,  not  only  deem 
them  valuable  and  interesting  on  other  accounts,  but  willingly 
admit  that  there  are  to  be  found  throughout  his  poems,  and 
especially  in  his  Epistles  and  in  his  Hymen's  Triumph,  many  and 
exquisite  specimens  of  that  style  which,  as  the  neutral  ground  of 
prose  and  verse,  is  common  to  both.  A  fine  and  almost  faultless 
extract,  eminent  as  for  other  beauties  so  for  its  perfection  in  this 
species  of  diction,  may  be  seen  in  Lamb's  Dramatic  Specimens, 
etc.,  a  work  of  various  interest  from  the  nature  of  the  selections 
themselves  (all  from  the  plays  of  Shakespeare's  contemporaries), 
and  deriving  a  high  additional  value  from  the  notes,  which  are 
full  of  just  and  original  criticism,  expressed  with  all  the  freshness 
of  originality. 

Among  the  possible  effects  of  practical  adherence  to  a  theory 
that  aims  to  identify  the  style  of  prose  and  verse  (if  it  does  not 
indeed  claim  for  the  latter  a  yet  nearer  resemblance  to  the  average 
style  of  men  in  the  viva  voce  intercourse  of  real  life)  we  might 
anticipate  the  following  as  not  the  least  likely  to  occur.  It  will 
happen,  as  I  have  indeed  before  observed,  that  the  metre  itself, 
the  sole  acknowledged  difference,  will  occasionally  become  metre 
to  the  eye  only.  The  existence  of  prosaisms,  and  that  they  detract 
from  the  merits  of  a  poem,  must  at  length  be  conceded,  when  a 
number  of  successive  lines  can  be  rendered,  even  to  the  most 
delicate  ear,  unrecognizable  as  verse,  or  as  having  even  been 
intended  for  verse,  by  simply  transcribing  them  as  prose  :  when 
if  the  poem  be  in  blank  verse,  this  can  be  effected  without  any 
alteration,  or  at  most  by  merely  restoring  one  or  two  words  to 
their  proper  places,  from  which  they  had  been  transplanted  *  for 

*  As  the  ingenious  gentleman  under  the  influence  of  the  Tragic  Muse  con- 
trived to  dislocate,  "  I  wish  you  a  good  morning,  Sir  !  Thank  you,  Sir,  and  I 
wish  you  the  same,"  into  two  blank-verse  heroics : 

To  you  a  morning  good,  good  Sir!  I  wish, 
You,  Sir!  I  thank:  to  you  the  same  wish  I. 

In  those  parts  of  Mr.  Wordsworth's  works  which  I  have  thoroughly  studied, 
I  find  fewer  instances  in  which  this  would  be  practicable  than  I  have  met  in 


METRICAL  COMPOSITION  337 

no  assignable  cause  or  reason  but  that  of  the  author's  convenience ; 
but  if  it  be  in  rhyme,  by  the  mere  exchange  of  the  final  word  of 
each  line  for  some  other  of  the  same  meaning,  equally  appropriate, 
dignified  and  euphonic. 

The  answer  or  objection  in  the  preface  to  the  anticipated  remark 
"  that  metre  paves  the  way  to  other  distinctions,"  is  contained  in 
the  following  words  :  —  "  The  distinction  of  rhyme  and  metre  is 
voluntary  and  uniform,  and  not  like  that  produced  by  (what  is 
called)  poetic  diction,  arbitrary  and  subject  to  infinite  caprices, 
upon  which  no  calculation  whatever  can  be  made.  In  the  one  case 
the  reader  is  utterly  at  the  mercy  of  the  poet  respecting  what 
imagery  or  diction  he  may  choose  to  connect  with  the  passion." 
But  is  this  a  poet,  of  whom  a  poet  is  speaking?  No,  surely  — 
rather  of  a  fool  or  madman,  or  at  best  of  a  vain  or  ignorant 
phantast!  And  might  not  brains  so  wild  and  so  deficient  make 
just  the  same  havoc  with  rhymes  and  metres  as  they  are  supposed 
to  effect  with  modes  and  figures  of  speech  ?  How  is  the  reader  at 
the  mercy  of  such  men  ?  If  he  continue  to  read  their  nonsense,  is 
it  not  his  own  fault  ?  The  ultimate  end  of  criticism  is  much  more 
to  establish  the  principles  of  writing  than  to  furnish  rules  how  to 

many  poems,  where  an  approximation  of  prose,  has  been  sedulously  and  on 
system  guarded  against.  Indeed,  excepting  the  stanzas  already  quoted  from 
the  Sailor's  Mother,  I  can  recollect  but  one  instance :  viz.  a  short  passage  of 
four  or  five  lines  in  the  Brothers,  that  model  of  English  pastoral,  which  I  never 
yet  read  with  unclouded  eye.  "James,  pointing  to  its  summit,  over  which  they 
had  all  purposed  to  return  together,  informed  them  that  he  would  wait  for  them 
there.  They  parted,  and  his  comrades  passed  that  way  some  two  hours  after, 
but  they  did  not  find  him  at  the  appointed  place,  a  circumstance  of  which  they 
took  no  heed :  bu't  one  of  them  going  by  chance  into  the  house,  which  at  this  time 
was  James's  house,  learnt  there  that  nobody  had  seen  him  all  that  day."  The 
only  change  which  has  been  made  is  in  the  position  of  the  little  word  "  there  " 
in  two  instances,  the  position  in  the  original  being  clearly  such  as  is  not  adopted 
in  ordinary  conversation.  The  other  words  printed  in  italics  were  so  marked 
because,  though  good  and  genuine  English,  they  are  not  the  phraseology  of 
common  conversation  either  in  the  word  put  in  apposition,  or  in  the  connection 
by  the  genitive  pronoun.  Men  in  general  would  have  said,  "  but  that  was  a 
circumstance  they  paid  no  attention  to,  or  took  no  notice  of,"  and  the  language 
is,  on  the  theory  of  the  preface,  justified  only  by  the  narrator's  being  the  Vicar. 
Yet  if  any  ear  could  suspect  that  these  sentences  were  ever  printed  as  metre, 
on  those  very  words  alone  could  the  suspicion  have  been  grounded. 


338        COLERIDGE  ON  WORDSWORTH  AND  POETRY 

pass  judgment  on  what  has  been  written  by  others ;  if  indeed  it 
were  possible  that  the  two  could  be  separated.  But  if  it  be  asked, 
by  what  principles  the  poet  is  to  regulate  his  own  style,  if  he  do 
not  adhere  closely  to  the  sort  and  order  of  words  which  he  hears 
in  the  market,  wake,  high-road,  or  plough-field?  I  reply,  by 
principles,  the  ignorance  or  neglect  of  which  would  convict  him 
of  being  no  poet,  but  a  silly  or  presumptuous  usurper  of  the  name ! 
By  the  principles  of  grammar,  logic,  psychology  !  In  one  word,  by 
such  a  knowledge  of  the  facts,  material  and  spiritual,  that  most 
appertain  to  his  art,  as,  if  it  have  been  governed  and  applied  by 
good  sense,  and  rendered  instinctive  by  habit,  becomes  the  repre- 
sentative and  reward  of  our  past  conscious  reasonings,  insights, 
and  conclusions,  and  acquires  the  name  of  taste.  By  what  rule 
that  does  not  leave  the  reader  at  the  poet's  mercy,  and  the  poet  at 
his  own,  is  the  latter  to  distinguish  between  the  language  suitable 
to  suppressed,  and  the  language  which  is  characteristic  of  indulged, 
anger?  Or  between  that  of  rage  and  that  of  jealousy?  Is  it 
obtained  by  wandering  about  in  search  of  angry  or  jealous  people 
in  uncultivated  society,  in  order  to  copy  their  words  ?  Or  not  far 
rather  by  the  power  of  imagination  proceeding  upon  the  all  in  each 
of  human  nature?  By  meditation,  rather  than  by  observation? 
And  by  the  latter  in  consequence  only  of  the  former  ?  As  eyes, 
for  which  the  former  has  predetermined  their  field  of  vision,  and 
to  which,  as  to  its  organ,  it  communicates  a  microscopic  power? 
There  is  not,  I  firmly  believe,  a  man  now  living,  who  has  from  his 
own  inward  experience  a  clearer  intuition  than  Mr.  Wordsworth 
himself,  that  the  last  mentioned  are  the  true  sources  of  genial  dis- 
crimination. Through  the  same  process  and  by  the  same  creative 
agency  will  the  poet  distinguish  the  degree  and  kind  of  the  excite- 
ment produced  by  the  very  act  of  poetic  composition.  As  intui- 
tively will  he  know,  what  differences  of  style  it  at  once  inspires 
and  justifies  ;  what  intermixture  of  conscious  volition  is  natural  to 
that  state ;  and  in  what  instances  such  figures  and  colours  of  speech 
degenerate  into  mere  creatures  of  an  arbitrary  purpose,  cold  techn- 
ical artifices  of  ornament  or  connection.  For  even  as  truth  is  its 
own  light  and  evidence,  discovering  at  once  itself  and  falsehood,  so 
is  it  the  prerogative  of  poetic  genius  to  distinguish  by  parental 


METRICAL  COMPOSITION  333 

instinct  its  proper  offspring  from  the  changelings,  which  the 
gnomes  of  vanity  or  the  fairies  of  fashion  may  have  laid  in  its 
cradle  or  called  by  its  names.  Could  a  rule  be  given  from  without, 
poetry  would  cease  to  be  poetry,  and  sink  into  a  mechanical  art. 
It  would  be  fj.6p<j>w<ri$  not  77-0070-19.  The  rules  of  the  imagination  are 
themselves  the  very  powers  of  growth  and  production.  The  words, 
to  which  they  are  reducible,  present  only  the  outlines  and  external 
appearance  of  the  fruit.  A  deceptive  counterfeit  of  the  superficial 
form  and  colours  may  be  elaborated  ;  but  the  marble  peach  feels 
cold  and  heavy,  and  children  only  put  it  to  their  mouths.  We  find 
no  difficulty  in  admitting  as  excellent,  and  the  legitimate  language 
of  poetic  fervour  self -impassioned,  Donne's  apostrophe  to  the  Sun 
in  the  second  stanza  of  his  Progress  of  the  Soul  : 

Thee,  eye  of  heaven !  this  great  soul  envies  not : 

By  thy  male  force  is  all  we  have  begot. 

In  the  first  East  thou  now  beginn'st  to  shine, 

Suck'st  early  balm  and  island  spices  there ; 

And  wilt  anon  in  thy  loose-rein'd  career 

At  Tagus,  Po,  Seine,  Thames,  and  Danow  dine, 

And  see  at  night  this  western  world  of  mine : 

Yet  hast  thou  not  more  nations  seen  than  she, 

Who  before  thee  one  day  began  to  be, 

And  thy  frail  light  being  quenched,  shall  long,  long  outlive  thee. 

Or  the  next  stanza  but  one  : 

Great  Destiny,  the  commissary  of  God, 
That  hast  marked  out  a  path  and  period 
For  ev'ry  thing !     Who,  where  we  offspring  took, 
Our  ways  and  ends  see'st  at  one  instant :  thou 
Knot  of  all  causes !    Thou,  whose  changeless  brow 
Ne'er  smiles  or  frowns !     0 !  vouchsafe  thou  to  look, 
And  shew  my  story  in  thy  eternal  book, 
etc. 

As  little  difficulty  do  we  find  in  excluding  from  the  honours  of 
unaffected  warmth  and  elevation  the  madness  prepense  of  pseudo- 
poesy,  or  the  startling  hysteric  of  weakness  over-exerting  itself, 
which  bursts  on  the  unprepared  reader  in  sundry  odes  and  apo- 
strophes to  abstract  terms.  Such  are  the  Odes  to  Jealousy,  to 
Hope,  to  Oblivion,  and  the  like,  in  Dodsley's  Collection  and  the 


340         COLERIDGE  ON   WORDSWORTH  AND  POETRY 

magazines  of  that  day,  which  seldom  fail  to  remind  me  of  an 
Oxford  copy  of  verses  on  the  Two  Buttons,  commencing  with : 

Inoculation,  heavenly  maid !  descend  ! 

It  is  not  to  be  denied  that  men  of  undoubted  talents,  and  even 
poets  of  true  though  not  of  first-rate  genius,  have,  from  a  mistaken 
theory,  deluded  both  themselves  and  others  in  the  opposite  extreme. 
I  once  read  to  a  company  of  sensible  and  well-educated  women  the 
introductory  period  of  Cowley's  preface  to  his  Pindaric  odes,  written 
in  imitation  of  the  style  and  manner  of  the  odes  of  Pindar.  "  If," 
says  Cowley,  "a  man  should  undertake  to  translate  Pindar,  word 
for  word,  it  would  be  thought  that  one  madman  had  translated 
another ;  as  may  appear  when  he  that  understands  not  the  original 
reads  the  verbal  traduction  of  him  into  Latin  prose,  than  which 
nothing  seems  more  raving."  I  then  proceeded  with  his  own  free 
version  of  the  second  Olympic,  composed  for  the  charitable  purpose 
of  rationalizing  the  Theban  Eagle  : 

Queen  of  all  harmonious  things, 

Dancing  words  and  speaking  strings, 

What  God,  what  hero  wilt  thou  sing? 

What  happy  man  to  equal  glories  bring? 

Begin,  begin  thy  noble  choice, 

And  let  the  hills  around  reflect  the  image  of  thy  voice. 

Pisa  does  to  Jove  belong, 

Jove  and  Pisa  claim  thy  song. 

The  fair  first-fruits  of  war,  th'  Olympic  games, 

Alcides  offer'd  up  to  Jove ; 

Alcides  too  thy  strings  may  move ! 

But  oh!  what  man  to  join  with  these  can  worthy  prove? 

Join  Theron  boldly  to  their  sacred  names; 

Theron  the  next  honour  claims ; 

Theron  to  no  man  gives  place ; 

Is  first  in  Pisa's  and  in  Virtue's  race ; 

Theron  there,  and  he  alone, 

Ev'n  his  own  swift  forefathers  has  outgone. 

One  of  the  company  exclaimed,  with  the  full  assent  of  the  rest, 
that  if  the  original  were  madder  than  this,  it  must  be  incurably 
mad.  I  then  translated  the  ode  from  the  Greek,  and  as  nearly  as 
possible  word  for  word ;  and  the  impression  was,  that  in  the  general 


METRICAL   COMPOSITION  341 

movement  of  the  periods,  in  the  form  of  the  connections  and  transi- 
tions, and  in  the  sober  majesty  of  lofty  sense,  it  appeared  to  them 
to  approach  more  nearly  than  any  other  poetry  they  had  heard  to 
the  style  of  our  Bible  in  the  prophetic  books.  The  first  strophe 
will  suffice  as  a  specimen  : 

Ye  harp-controlling  hymns !  (or)  ye  hymns  the  sovereigns  of  harps ! 

What  God?  what  Hero? 

What  Man  shall  we  celebrate? 

Truly  Pjsa  indeed  is  of  Jove. 

But  the  Olympiad  (or  the  Olympic  games)  did  Hercules  establish, 

The  first-fruits  of  the  spoils  of  war. 

But  Theron  for  the  four-horsed  car, 

That  bore  victory  to  him, 

It  behoves  us  now  to  voice  aloud : 

The  Just,  the  Hospitable, 

The  Bulwark  of  Agrigentum, 

Of  renowned  fathers 

The  Flower,  even  him 

Who  preserves  his  native  city  erect  and  safe. 

But  are  such  rhetorical  caprices  condemnable  only  for  their  devia- 
tion from  the  language  of  real  life  ?  and  are  they  by  no  other  means 
to  be  precluded,  but  by  the  rejection  of  all  distinctions  between 
prose  and  verse,  save  that  of  metre  ?  Surely,  good  sense  and  a 
moderate  insight  into  the  constitution  of  the  human  mind  would  be 
amply  sufficient  to  prove  that  such  language  and  such  combinations 
are  the  native  produce  neither  of  the  fancy  nor  of  the  imagination; 
that  their  operation  consists  in  the  excitement  of  surprise  by  the 
juxtaposition  and  apparent  reconciliation  of  widely  different  or 
incompatible  things.  As  when,  for  instance,  the  hills  are  made  to 
reflect  the  image  of  a  voice.  Surely  no  unusual  taste  is  requisite 
to  see  clearly  that  this  compulsory  juxtaposition  is  not  produced  by 
the  presentation  of  impressive  or  delightful  forms  to  the  inward 
vision,  nor  by  any  sympathy  with  the  modifying  powers  with  which 
the  genius  of  the  poet  had  united  and  inspirited  all  the  objects  of 
his  thought ;  that  it  is  therefore  a  species  of  wit,  a  pure  work  of 
the  will,  and  implies  a  leisure  and  self-possession  both  of  thought 
and  of  feeling,  incompatible  with  the  steady  fervour  of  a  mind  pos- 
sessed and  filled  with  the  grandeur  of  its  subject.  To  sum  up  the 


342         COLERIDGE   ON  WORDSWORTH  AND  POETRY 

whole  in  one  sentence  :  When  a  poem,  or  a  part  of  a  poem,  shall  be 
adduced,  which  is  evidently  vicious  in  the  figures  and  contexture 
of  its  style,  yet  for  the  condemnation  of  which  no  reason  can  be 
assigned,  except  that  it  differs  from  the  style  in  which  men  actually 
converse,  then,  and  not  till  then,  can  I  hold  this  theory  to  be  either 
plausible  or  practicable,  or  capable  of  furnishing  either  rule,  guid- 
ance, or  precaution,  that  might  not,  more  easily  and  more  safely, 
as  well  as  more  naturally,  have  been  deduced  in  the  author's  own 
mind  from  considerations  of  grammar,  logic,  and  tfye  truth  and 
nature  of  things,  confirmed  by  the  authority  of  works  whose  fame 
is  not  of  one  country,  nor  of  one  age. 

WORDSWORTH'S -REAL  OBJECT 

It  might  appear  from  some  passages  in  the  former  part  of  Mr. 
Wordsworth's  preface,  that  he  meant  to  confine  his  theory  of  style, 
and  the  necessity  of  a  close  accordance  with  the  actual  language  of 
men,  to  those  particular  subjects  from  low  and  rustic  life,  which 
by  way  of  experiment  he  had  purposed  to  naturalize  as  a  new 
species  in  our  English  poetry.  But  from  the  train  of  argument 
that  follows,  from  the  reference  to  Milton,  and  from  the  spirit  of 
his  critique  on  Gray's  Sonnet,  those  sentences  appear  to  have  been 
rather  courtesies  of  modesty  than  actual  limitations  of  his  system. 
Yet  so  groundless  does  this  system  appear  on  a  close  examination, 
and  so  strange  and  overwhelming  in  its  consequences,  that  I  cannot, 
and  I  do  not,  believe  that  the  poet  did  ever  himself  adopt  it  in  the 
unqualified  sense  in  which  his  expressions  have  been  understood  by 
others,  and  which  indeed,  according  to  all  the  common  laws  of 
interpretation,  they  seem  to  bear.  What  then  did  he  mean?  I 
apprehend  that,  in  the  clear  perception,  not  unaccompanied  with 
disgust  or  contempt,  of  the  gaudy  affectations  of  a  style  which 
passed  too  current  with  too  many  for  poetic  diction  (though,  in 
truth,  it  had  as  little  pretensions  to  poetry  as  to  logic  or  common 
sense),  he  narrowed  his  view  for  the  time ;  and  feeling  a  justifiable 
preference  for  the  language  of  nature  and  of  good  sense,  even  in  its 
humblest  and  least  ornamented  forms,  he  suffered  himself  to  express, 
in  terms  at  once  too  large  and  too  exclusive,  his  predilection  for  a 


WORDSWORTH'S  REAL  OBJECT  343 

style  the  most  remote  possible  from  the  false  and  showy  splendour 
which  he  wished  to  explode.  It'  is  possible  that  this  predilection, 
at  first  merely  comparative,  deviated  for  a  time  into  direct  partiality. 
But  the  real  object  which  he  had  in  view  was,  I  doubt  not,  a  species 
of  excellence  which  had  been  long  before  most  happily  characterized 
by  the  judicious  and  amiable  Garve,  whose  works  are  so  justly 
beloved  and  esteemed  by  the  Germans,  in  his  remarks  on  Gellert, 
from  which  the  following  is  literally  translated :  — "  The  talent 
that  is  required,  in  order  to  make  excellent  verses,  is  perhaps 
greater  than  the  philosopher  is  ready  to  admit,  or  would  find  it  in 
his  power  to  acquire ;  the  talent  to  seek  only  the  apt  expression  of 
the  thought,  and  yet  to  find  at  the  same  time  with  it  the  rhyme  and 
the  metre.  Gellert  possessed  this  happy  gift,  if  ever  any  one  of 
our  poets  possessed  it ;  and  nothing  perhaps  contributed  more  to  the 
great  and  universal  impression  which  his  fables  made  on  their  first 
publication,  or  conduces  more  to  their  continued  popularity.  It 
was  a  strange  and  curious  phenomenon,  and  such  as  in  Germany 
had  been  previously  unheard  of,  to  read  verses  in  which  everything 
was  expressed,  just  as  one  would  wish  to  talk,  and  yet  all  dignified, 
attractive,  and  interesting;  and  all  at  the  same  time  perfectly 
correct  as  to  the  measure  of  the  syllables  and  the  rhyme.  It  is 
certain  that  poetry,  when  it  has  attained  this  excellence,  makes  a 
far  greater  impression  than  prose.  So  much  so  indeed,  that  even 
the  gratification  which  the  very  rhymes  afford,  becomes  then  no 
longer  a  contemptible  or  trifling  gratification." 

However  novel  this  phenomenon  may  have  been  in  Germany  at 
the  time  of  Gellert,  it  is  by  no  means  new,  nor  yet  of  recent  exist- 
ence in  our  language.  Spite  of  the  licentiousness  with  which 
Spenser  occasionally  compels  the  orthography  of  his  words  into  a 
subservience  to  his  rhymes,  the  whole  Faery  Queen  is  an  almost 
continued  instance  of  this  beauty.  Waller's  song,  "Go,  lovely 
Rose,"  etc.,  is  doubtless  familiar  to  most  of  my  readers  ;  but  if  I  had 
happened  to  have  had  by  me  the  poems  of  Cotton,  more  but  far  less 
deservedly  celebrated  as  the  author  of  the  Virgil  Travestied,  I  should 
have  indulged  myself,  and  I  think  have  gratified  many  who  are  not 
acquainted  with  his  serious  works,  by  selecting  some  admirable 
specimens  of  this  style.  There  are  not  a  few  poems  in  that  volume, 


344         COLERIDGE   ON  WORDSWORTH   AND  POETRY 

replete  with  every  excellence  of  thought,  image,  and  passion,  which 
we  expect  oc  desire  in  the  poetry  of  the  milder  muse,  and  yet  so 
worded  that  the  reader  sees  no  one  reason  either  in  the  selection  or 
the  order  of  the  words  why  he  might  not  have  said  the  very  same 
in  an  appropriate  conversation,  and  cannot  conceive  how  indeed  he 
could  have  expressed  such  thoughts  otherwise,  without  loss  or 
injury  to  his  meaning. 

But  in  truth  our  language  is,  and  from  the  first  dawn  of  poetry 
ever  has  been,  particularly  rich  in  compositions  distinguished  by 
this  excellence. 

Examples,  interesting  in  themselves,  follow  out  of  poets  from  Chaucer 
downwards  through  Herbert  and  others  to  Wordsworth  himself.  The 
thread  may  be  taken  up  as  follows.  Coleridge  has  passed  to  the  vindica- 
tion of  the  special  qualities  of  Wordsworth's  style. 

The  words  themselves  in  the  foregoing  extracts  are,  no  doubt, 
sufficiently  common  for  the  greater  part.  (But  in  what  poem  are 
they  not  so  ?  if  we  except  a  few  misadventurous  attempts  to  trans- 
late the  arts  and  sciences  into  verse  ?)  In  The  Excursion  the 
number  of  polysyllabic  (or  what  the  common  people  call  dictionary) 
words  is  more  than  usually  great.  And  so  must  it  needs  be,  in 
proportion  to  the  number  and  variety  of  an  author's  conceptions, 
and  his  solicitude  to  express  them  with  precision.  But  are  those 
words  in  those  places  commonly  employed  in  real  life  to  express 
the  same  thought  or  outward  thing  ?  Are  they  the  style  used  in 
the  ordinary  intercourse  of  spoken  words  ?  No ;  nor  are  the  modes 
of  connections :  and  still  less  the  breaks  and  transitions.  Would 
any  but  a  poet — at  least  could  any  one  without  being  conscious  that 
he  had  expressed  himself  with  noticeable  vivacity — have  described 
a  bird  singing  loud  by,  "The  thrush  is  busy  in  the  wood"  ?  Or 
have  spoken  of  boys  with  a  string  of  club-moss  round  their  rusty 
hats,  as  the  boys  "with  their  green  coronal"?  Or  have  translated 
a  beautiful  May-day  into  "Both  earth  and  sky  keep  jubilee" ?  Or 
have  brought  all  the  different  marks  and  circumstances  of  a  sea-loch 
before  the  mind,  as  the  actions  of  a  living  and  acting  power  ?  Or 
have  represented  the  reflection  of  the  sky  in  the  water  as,  "  That 
uncertain  heaven  received  into  the  bosom  of  the  steady  lake  "  ?  Even 


REMARKS   OX   CONDUCTING  CRITICAL  JOURNALS     345 

the  grammatical  construction  is  not  unfrequently  peculiar ;  as,  "  The 
wind,  the  tempest  roaring  high,  the  tumult  of  a  tropic  sky,  might 
well  be  dangerous  food  to  him,  a  youth  to  whom  was  given,"  etc. 
There  is  a  peculiarity  in  the  frequent  use  of  the  ao-wdpTrjrov  (i.e., 
the  omission  of  the  connective  particle  before  the  last  of  several 
words,  or  several  sentences  used  grammatically  as  single  words,  all 
being  in  the  same  case  and  governing  or  governed  by  the  same  verb), 
and  not  less  in  the  construction  of  words  by  apposition  (to  him,  a 
youth).  In  short,  were  there  excluded  from  Mr.  Wordsworth's 
poetic  compositions  all  that  a  literal  adherence  to  the  theory  of  his 
preface  would  exclude,  two-thirds  at  least  of  the  marked  beauties  of 
his  poetry  must  be  erased.  For  a  far  greater  number  of  lines  would 
be  sacrificed  than  in  any  other  recent  poet ;  because  the  pleasure 
received  from  Wordsworth's  poems  being  less  derived  either  from 
excitement  of  curiosity  or  the  rapid  flow  of  narration,  the  striking 
passages  form  a  larger  proportion  of  their  value.  I  do  not  adduce 
it  as  a  fair  criterion  of  comparative  excellence,  nor  do  I  even  think 
it  such  ;  but  merely  as  matter  of  fact.  I  affirm,  that  from  no  con- 
temporary writer  could  so  many  lines  be  quoted,  without  reference 
to  the  poem  in  which  they  are  found,  for  their  own  independent 
weight  or  beauty.  From  the  sphere  of  my  own  experience,  I  can 
bring  to  my  recollection  three  persons,  of  no  every-day  powers  and 
acquirements,  who  had  read  the  poems  of  others  with  more  and  more 
unalloyed  pleasure,  and  had  thought  more  highly  of  their  authors, 
as  poets  ;  who  yet  have  confessed  to  me,  that  from  no  modern  work 
had  so  many  passages  started  up  anew  in  their  minds  at  different 
times,  and  as  different  occasions  had  awakened  a  meditative  mood. 

REMARKS   ON   THE   PRESENT   MODE   OF   CONDUCTING 
CRITICAL   JOURNALS 

(I  have  been  in  two  minds  as  to  the  inclusion  of  this  chapter.  It  is 
measurably  on  a  lower  level  than  its  context.  But  it  is  valuable  and  true.) 

Long  have  I  wished  to  see  a  fair  and  philosophical  inquisition 
into  the  character  of  Wordsworth,  as  a  poet,  on  the  evidence  of  his 
published  works  ;  and  a  positive,  not  a  comparative,  appreciation  of 


346         COLERIDGE   ON  WORDSWORTH  AND  POETRY 

their  characteristic  excellences,  deficiencies,  and  defects.  I  know 
no  claim  that  the  mere  opinion  of  any  individual  can  have  to  weigh 
down  the  opinion  of  the  author  himself ;  against  the  probability  of 
whose  parental  partiality  we  ought  to  set  that  of  his  having  thought 
longer  and  more  deeply  on  the  subject.  But  I  should  call  that 
investigation  fair  and  philosophical,  in  which  the  critic  announces 
and  endeavours  to  establish  the  principles,  which  he  holds  for  the 
foundation  of  poetry  in  general,  with  the  specification  of  these  in 
their  application  to  the  different  classes  of  poetry.  Having  thus 
prepared  his  canons  of  criticism  for  praise  and  condemnation,  we 
would  proceed  to  particularize  the  most  striking  passages  to  which 
he  deems  them  applicable,  faithfully  noticing  the  frequent  or 
infrequent  recurrence  of  similar  merits  or  defects,  and  as  faithfully 
distinguishing  what  is  characteristic  from  what  is  accidental,  or  a 
mere  flagging  of  the  wing.  Then  if  his  premises  be  rational,  his 
deductions  legitimate,  and  his  conclusions  justly  applied,  the  reader, 
and  possibly  the  poet  himself,  may  adopt  his  judgment  in  the  light 
of  judgment  and  in  the  independence  of  free  agency.  If  he  has 
erred,  he  presents  his  errors  in  a  definite  place  and  tangible  form, 
and  holds  the  torch  and  guides  the  way  to  their  detection. 

I  most  willingly  admit,  and  estimate  at  a  high  value,  the  services 
which  the  Edinburgh  Review,  and  others  formed  afterwards  on  the 
same  plan,  have  rendered  to  society  in  the  diffusion  of  knowledge. 
I  think  the  commencement  of  the  Edinburgh  Review  an  important 
epoch  in  periodical  criticism ;  and  that  it  has  a  claim  upon  the 
gratitude  of  the  literary  republic,  and  indeed  of  the  reading  public 
at  large,  for  having  originated  the  scheme  of  reviewing  those  books 
only,  which  are  susceptible  and  deserving  of  argumentative  criti- 
cism. Not  less  meritorious,  and  far  more  faithfully  and  in  general 
far  more  ably  executed,  is  their  plan  of  supplying  the  vacant  place 
of  the  trash  or  mediocrity  wisely  left  to  sink  into  oblivion  by  their 
own  weight,  with  original  essays  on  the  most  interesting  subjects  of 
the  time,  religious  or  political ;  in  which  the  titles  of  the  books  or 
pamphlets  prefixed  furnish  only  the  name  and  occasion  of  the  dis- 
quisition. I  do  not  arraign  the  keenness  or  asperity  of  its  damna- 
tory style,  in  and  for  itself,  as  long  as  the  author  is  addressed  or 
treated  as  the  mere  impersonation  of  the  work  then  under  trial.  I 


REMARKS  ON   CONDUCTING  CRITICAL  JOURNALS     347 

have  no  quarrel  with  them  on  this  account,  as  long  as  no  personal 
allusions  are  admitted,  and  no  recommitment  (for  new  trial)  of 
juvenile  performances,  that  were  published,  perhaps  forgotten, 
many  years  before  the  commencement  of  the  review :  since  for  the 
forcing  back  of  such  works  to  public  notice  no  motives  are  easily 
assignable,  but  such  as  are  furnished  to  the  critic  by  his  own 
personal  malignity ;  or  what  is  still  worse,  by  a  habit  of  malignity 
in  the  form  of  mere  wantonness. 

No  private  grudge  they  need,  no  personal  spite  : 

The  viva  sectio  is  its  own  delight ! 

All  enmity,  all  envy,  they  disclaim, 

Disinterested  thieves  of  our  good  name ; 

Cool,  sober  murderers  of  their  neighbour's  fame  ! 

S.  T.  C. 

Every  censure,  every  sarcasm  respecting  a  publication  which  the 
critic,  with  the  criticised  work  before  him,  can  make  good,  is  the 
critic's  right.  The  writer  is  authorized  to  reply,  but  not  to  complain. 
Neither  can  any  one  prescribe  to  the  critic  how  soft  or  how  hard, 
how  friendly  or  how  bitter,  shall  be  the  phrases  which  he  is  to 
select  for  the  expression  of  such  reprehension  or  ridicule.  The 
critic  must  know  what  effect  it  is  his  object  to  produce  ;  and  with  a 
view  to  this  effect  must  he  weigh  his  words.  But  as  soon  as  the 
critic  betrays  that  he  knows  more  of  his  author  than  the  author's 
publications  could  have  told  him,  as  soon  as  from  this  more  intimate 
knowledge,  elsewhere  obtained,  he  avails  himself  of  the  slightest 
trait  against  the  author,  his  censure  instantly  becomes  personal 
injury,  his  sarcasms  personal  insults.  He  ceases  to  be  a  critic,  and 
takes  on  him  the  most  contemptible  character  to  which  a  rational 
creature  can  be  degraded,  that  of  a  gossip,  backbiter,  and  pasquill- 
ant:  but  with  this  heavy  aggravation,  that  he  steals  the  unquiet, 
the  deforming  passions  of  the  world,  into  the  museum;  into  the 
very  place  which,  next  to  the  chapel  and  oratory,  should  be  our 
sanctuary,  and  secure  place  of  refuge ;  offers  abominations  on  the 
altar  of  the  Muses ;  and  makes  its  sacred  paling  the  very  circle  in 
which  he  conjures  up  the  lying  and  profane  spirit. 

This  determination  of  unlicensed  personality,  and  of  permitted 
and  legitimate  censur'e  (which  I  owe  in  part  to  the  illustrious 


348         COLERIDGE  ON    WORDSWORTH  AND  POETRY 

Lessing,  himself  a  model  of  acute,  spirited,  sometimes  stinging, 
but  always  argumentative  and  honourable  criticism)  is,  beyond  con- 
troversy, the  true  one ;  and  though  I  would  not  myself  exercise  all 
the  rights  of  the  latter,  yet,  let  but  the  former  be  excluded,  I  submit 
myself  to  its  exercise  in  the  hands  of  others,  without  complaint  and 
without  resentment. 

Let  a  communication  be  formed  between  any  number  of  learned 
men  in  the  various  branches  of  science  and  literature ;  and  whether 
the  president  or  central  committee  be  in  London,  or  Edinburgh, 
if  only  they  previously  lay  aside  their  individuality,  and  pledge 
themselves  inwardly,  as  well  as  ostensibly,  to  administer  judgment 
according  to  a  constitution  and  code  of  laws ;  and  if  by  grounding 
this  code  on  the  two-fold  basis  of  universal  morals  and  philosophic 
reason,  independent  of  all  foreseen  application  to  particular  works 
and  authors,  they  obtain  the  right  to  speak  each  as  the  represent- 
ative of  their  body  corporate ;  they  shall  have  honour  and  good 
wishes  from  me,  and  I  shall  accord  to  them  their  fair  dignities, 
though  self-assumed,  not  less  cheerfully  than  if  I  could  enquire 
concerning  them  in  the  herald's  office,  or  turn  to  them  in  the  book 
of  peerage.  However  loud  may  be  the  outcries  for  prevented  or 
subverted  reputation,  however  numerous  and  impatient  the  com- 
plaints of  merciless  severity  and  insupportable  despotism,  I  shall 
neither  feel  nor  utter  aught  but  to  the  defence  and  justification  of 
the  critical  machine.  Should  any  literary  Quixote  find  himself 
provoked  by  its  sounds  and  regular  movements,  I  should  admonish 
him,  with  Sancho  Panza,  that  it  is  no  giant,  but  a  windmill ;  there 
it  stands  on  its  own  place  and  its  own  hillock,  never  goes  out  of 
the  way  to  attack  any  one,  and  to  none,  and  from  none,  either  gives 
or  asks  assistance.  When  the  public  press  has  poured  in  any  part 
of  its  produce  between  its  mill-stones,  it  grinds  it  off,  one  man's 
sack  the  same  as  another,  and  with  whatever  wind  may  then  happen 
to  be  blowing.  All  the  two-and-thirty  winds  are  alike  its  friends. 
Of  the  whole  wide  atmosphere,  it  does  not  desire  a  single  finger- 
breadth  more  than  what  is  necessary  for  its  sails  to  turn  round  in. 
But  this  space  must  be  left  free  and  unimpeded.  Gnats,  beetles, 
wasps,  butterflies,  and  the  whole  tribe  of  ephemerals  and  insigni- 
ficants,  may  flit  in  and  out  and  between ;  may  hum,  and  buzz, 


REMARKS   ON  CONDUCTING  CRITICAL  JOURNALS     349 

« 

and  jar ;  may  shrill  their  tiny  pipes,  and  wind  their  puny  horns, 
unchastised  and  unnoticed.  But  idlers  and  bravados  of  larger  size 
and  prouder  show  must  beware  how  they  place  themselves  within 
its  sweep.  Much  less  may  they  presume  to  lay  hands  on  the  sails, 
the  strength  of  which  is  neither  greater  or  less  than  as  the  wind  is 
which  drives  them  round.  Whomsoever  the  remorseless  arm  slings 
aloft,  or  whirls  along  with  it  in  the  air,  he  has  himself  alone  to 
blame;  though  when  the  same  arm  throws  him  from  it,  it  will 
more  often  double  than  break  the  force  of  his  fall. 

Putting  aside  the  too  manifest  and  too  frequent  interference  of 
national,  party,  and  even  personal  predilection  or  aversion,  and 
reserving  for  deeper  feelings  those  worse  and  more  criminal  intrus- 
ions into  the  sacreduess  of  private  life,  which  not  seldom  merit 
legal  rather  than  literary  chastisement,  the  two  principal  objects 
and  occasions  which  I  find  for  blame  and  regret  in  the  conduct 
of  the  review  in  question  are,  first,  its  unfaithfulness  to  its  own 
announced  and  excellent  plan,  by  subjecting  to  criticism  works 
neither  indecent  or  immoral,  yet  of  such  trifling  importance  even 
in  point  of  size,  and,  according  to  the  critic's  own  verdict,  so  devoid 
of  all  merit,  as  must  excite  in  the  most  candid  mind  the  suspicion 
either  that  dislike  or  vindictive  feelings  were  at  work ;  or  that 
there  was  a  cold  prudential  predetermination  to  increase  the  sale 
of  the  Review  by  flattering  the  malignant  passions  of  human  nature. 
That  I  may  not  myself  become  subject  to  the  charge,  which  I  am 
bringing  against  others,  by  an  accusation  without  proof,  I  refer  to 
the  article  on  Dr.  Rennell's  sermon  in  the  very  first  number  of  the 
Edinburgh  Review  as  an  illustration  of  my  meaning.  If  in  looking 
through  all  the  succeeding  volumes  the  reader  should  find  this  a 
solitary  instance,  I  must  submit  to  that  painful  forfeiture  of  esteem 
which  awaits  a  groundless  or  exaggerated  charge. 

The  second  point  of  objection  belongs  to  this  review  only  in  com- 
mon with  all  other  works  of  periodical  criticism  ;  at  least,  it  applies 
in  common  to  the  general  system  of  all,  whatever  exception  there 
may  be  in  favour  of  particular'  articles.  Or  if  it  attaches  to  the 
Edinburgh  Review,  and  to  its  only  co-rival,  the  Quarterly,  with  any 
peculiar  force,  this  results  from  the  superiority  of  talent,  acquire- 
ment, and  information  which  both  have  so  undeniably  displayed, 


350        COLERIDGE  ON  WORDSWORTH  AND  POETRY 

and  which  doubtless  deepens  the  regret  though  not  the  blame.  I 
am  referring  to  the  substitution  of  assertion  for  argument ;  to  the 
frequency  of  arbitrary  and  sometimes  petulant  verdicts,  not  seldom 
unsupported  even  by  a  single  quotation  from  the  work  condemned, 
which  might  at  least  have  explained  the  critic's  meaning,  if  it  did 
not  prove  the  justice  of  his  sentence.  Even  where  this  is  not  the 
case,  the  extracts  are  too  often  made  without  reference  to  any  general 
grounds  or  rules  from  which  the  f aultiness  or  inadmissibility  of  the 
qualities  attributed  may  be  deduced,  and  without  any  attempt  to 
show  that  the  qualities  are  attributable  to  the  passage  extracted.  I 
have  met  with  such  extracts  from  Mr.  Wordsworth's  poems,  annexed 
to  such  assertions,  as  lead  me  to  imagine  that  the  reviewer,  having 
written  his  critique  before  he  had  read  the  work,  had  then  pricked 
with  a  pin  for  passages  wherewith  to  illustrate  the  various  branches 
of  his  preconceived  opinions.  By  what  principle  of  rational  choice 
can  we  suppose  a  critic  to  have  been  directed  (at  least  in  a  Christian 
country,  and  himself,  we  hope,  a  Christian)  who  gives  the  follow- 
ing lines,  portraying  the  fervour  of  solitary  devotion  excited  by 
the  magnificent  display  of  the  Almighty's  works,  as  a  proof  and 
example  of  an  author's  tendency  to  downright  ravings,  and  absolute 
unintelligibility  ? 

O  then  what  soul  was  his,  when  on  the  tops 

Of  the  high  mountains  he  beheld  the  sun 

Rise  up,  and  bathe  the  world  in  light !     He  looked  — 

Ocean  and  earth,  the  solid  frame  of  earth, 

And  ocean's  liquid  mass,  beneath  him  lay 

In  gladness  and  deep  joy.     The  clouds  were  touched, 

And  in  their  silent  faces  did  he  read 

Unutterable  love !     Sound  needed  none, 

Nor  any  voice  of  joy :  his  spirit  drank 

The  spectacle !  sensation,  soul,  and  form, 

All  melted  into  him.     They  swallowed  up 

His  animal  being :  in  them  did  he  live, 

And  by  them  did  he  live :  they  were  his  life. 

The  Excursion. 

Can  it  be  expected  that  either  the  author  or  his  admirers 
should  be  induced  to  pay  any  serious  attention  to  decisions  whicli 
prove  nothing  but  the  pitiable  state  of  the  critic's  own  taste  and 


REMARKS  ON  CONDUCTING  CRITICAL  JOURNALS     351 

sensibility  ?  On  opening  the  Review  they  see  a  favourite  passage, 
of  the  force  and  truth  of  which  they  had  an  intuitive  certainty  in 
their  own  inward  experience,  confirmed,  if  confirmation  it  could 
receive,  by  the  sympathy  of  their  most  enlightened  friends,  some 
of  whom  perhaps,  even  in  the  world's  opinion,  hold  a  higher  intel- 
lectual rank  than  the  critic  himself  would  presume  to  claim.  And 
this  very  passage  they  find  selected  as  the  characteristic  effusion  of 
a  mind  deserted  by  reason ;  as  furnishing  evidence  that  the  writer 
was  raving,  or  he  could  not  have  thus  strung  words  together  without 
sense  or  purpose  !  No  diversity  of  taste  seems  capable  of  explaining 
such  a  contrast  in  judgment. 

That  I  had  overrated  the  merit  of  a  passage  or  poem,  that  I  had 
erred  concerning  the  degree  of  its  excellence,  I  might  be  easily 
induced  to  believe  or  apprehend.  But  that  lines,  the  sense  of 
which  I  had  analyzed  and  found  consonant  with  all  the  best  con- 
victions of  my  understanding,  and  the  imagery  and  diction  of  which 
had  collected  round  those  convictions  my  noblest  as  well  as  my  most 
delightful  feelings ;  that  I  should  admit  such  lines  to  be  mere  non- 
sense or  lunacy,  is  too  much  for  the  most  ingenious  arguments  to 
effect.  But  that  such  a  revolution  of  taste  should  be  brought  about 
by  a  few  broad  assertions,  seems  little  less  than  impossible.  On  the 
contrary,  it  would  require  an  effort  of  charity  not  to  dismiss  the 
criticism  with  the  aphorism  of  the  wise  man,  in  animam  malevolam 
sapientia  hand  intrare  potest. 

What  then  if  this  very  critic  should  have  cited  a  large  number 
of  single  lines,  and  even  of  long  paragraphs,  which  he  himself 
acknowledges  to  possess  eminent  and  original  beauty?  What  if 
he  himself  has  owned  that  beauties  as  great  are  scattered  in  abund- 
ance throughout  the  whole  book?  And  yet,  though  under  this 
impression,  should  have  commenced  his  critique  in  vulgar  exalt- 
ation with  a  prophecy  meant  to  secure  its  own  fulfilment  ?  With 
a  "  This  won't  do  ! "  What  if  after  such  acknowledgments,  extorted 
from  his  own  judgment,  he  should  proceed  from  charge  to  charge 
of  tameness  and  raving,  flights  and  flatness ;  and  at  length,  con- 
signing the  author  to  the  house  of  incurables,  should  conclude  with 
a  strain  of  rudest  contempt,  evidently  grounded  in  the  distempered 
state  of  his  own  moral  associations  ?  Suppose,  too,  all  this  done 


352         COLERIDGE  ON  WORDSWORTH  AND   POETRY 

without  a  single  leading  principle  established  or  even  announced, 
and  without  any  one  attempt  at  argumentative  deduction,  though 
the  poet  had  presented  a  more  than  usual  opportunity  for  it,  by 
having  previously  made  public  his  own  principles  of  judgment  in 
poetry,  and  supported  them  by  a  connected  train  of  reasoning ! 
The  office  and  duty  of  the  poet  is  to  select  the  most  dignified  as 

well  as 

The  gayest,  happiest  attitude  of  things. 

The  reverse,  for  in  all  cases  a  reverse  is  possible,  is  the  appropriate 
business  of  burlesque  and  travesty,  a  predominant  taste  for  which 
has  been  always  deemed  a  mark  of  a  low  and  degraded  mind. 
When  I  was  at  Home,  among  many  other  visits  to  the  tomb  of 
Julius  II,  I  went  thither  once  with  a  Prussian  artist,  a  man  of 
genius  and  great  vivacity  of  feeling.  As  we  were  gazing  on  Michael 
Angelo's  Moses,  our  conversation  turned  on  the  horns  and  beard  of 
that  stupendous  statue ;  on  the  necessity  of  each  to  support  the 
other ;  on  the  superhuman  effect  of  the  former,  and  the  necessity  of 
the  existence  of  both  to  give  a  harmony  and  integrity  both  to  the 
image  and  the  feeling  excited  by  it.  Conceive  them  removed,  and 
the  statue  would  become  ww-natural,  without  being  super-natural, 
We  called  to  mind  the  horns  of  the  rising  sun,  and  I  repeated  the 
noble  passage  from  Taylor's  Holy  Dying.  That  horns  were  the 
emblem  of  power  and  sovereignty  among  the  Eastern  nations,  and 
are  still  retained  as  such  in  Abyssinia ;  the  Achelous  of  the  ancient 
Greeks ;  and  the  probable  ideas  and  feelings  that  originally  sug- 
gested the  mixture  of  the  human  and  the  brute  form  in  the  figure 
by  which  they  realized  the  idea  of  their  mysterious  Pan,  as  repre- 
senting intelligence  blended  with  a  darker  power,  deeper,  mightier, 
and  more  universal  than  the  conscious  intellect  of  man,  than  intel- 
ligence ;  all  these  thoughts  and  recollections  passed  in  procession 
before  our  minds.  My  companion,  who  possessed  more  than  his 
share  of  the  hatred  which  his  countrymen  bore  to  the  French,  had 
just  observed  to  me,  "A  Frenchman,  sir,  is  the  only  animal  in  the 
human  shape  that  by  no  possibility  can  lift  itself  up  to  religion  or 
poetry";  when,  lo !  two  French  officers  of  distinction  and  rank 
entered  the  church!  "Mark  you,"  whispered  the  Prussian,  "the 
first  thing  which  those  scoundrels  will  notice  (for  they  will  begin  by 


REMARKS  ON  CONDUCTING  CRITICAL  JOURNALS     353 

instantly  noticing  the  statue  in  parts,  without  one  moment's  pause 
of  admiration  impressed  by  the  whole)  will  be  the  horns  and  the 
beard.  And  the  associations  which  they  will  immediately  connect 
with  them  will  be  those  of  a  he-goat  and  a  cuckold."  Never  did 
man  guess  more  luckily.  Had  he  inherited  a  portion  of  the  great 
legislator's  prophetic  powers,  whose  statue  we  had  been  contem- 
plating, he  could  scarcely  have  uttered  words  more  coincident  with 
the  result ;  for  even  as  he  had  said,  so  it  came  to  pass. 

In  The  Excursion  the  poet  has  introduced  an  old  man,  born  in 
humble  but  not  abject  circumstances,  who  had  enjoyed  more  than 
usual  advantages  of  education,  both  from  books  and  from  the  more 
awful  discipline  of  nature.  This  person  he  represents  as  having 
been  driven  by  the  restlessness  of  fervid  feelings  and  from  a  crav- 
ing intellect  to  an  itinerant  life,  and  as  having,  in  consequence, 
passed  the  larger  portion  of  his  time,  from  earliest  manhood,  in 
villages  and  hamlets  from  door  to  door : 

A  vagrant  merchant  bent  beneath  his  load. 

Now  whether  this  be  a  character  appropriate  to  a  lofty  didactic 
poem,  is  perhaps  questionable.  It  presents  a  fair  subject  for  con- 
troversy ;  and  the  question  is  to  be  determined  by  the  congruity  or 
incongruity  of  such  a  character  with  what  shall  be  proved  to  be  the 
essential  constituents  of  poetry.  But  surely  the  critic  who,  passing 
by  all  the  opportunities  which  such  a  mode  of  life  would  present 
to  such  a  man;  all  the  advantages  of  the  liberty  of  nature,  of  soli- 
tude, and  of  solitary  thought ;  all  the  varieties  of  places  and  seasons, 
through  which  his  track  had  lain,  with  all  the  varying  imagery  they 
bring  with  them ;  and  lastly,  all  the  observations  of  men, 

Their  manners,  their  enjoyments  and  pursuits, 
Their  passions  and  their  feelings, 

which  the  memory  of  these  yearly  journeys  must  have  given  and 
recalled  to  such  a  mind — the  critic,  I  say,  who  from  the  multitude 
of  possible  associations  should  pass  by  all  these  in  order  to  fix  his 
attention  exclusively  on  the  pin-papers,  and  stay-tapes,  which  might 
have  been  among  the  wares  of  his  pack  :  this  critic,  in  my  opinion, 
cannot  be  thought  to  possess  a  much  higher  or  much  healthier  state 
of  moral  feeling  than  the  Frenchman  above  recorded. 


354        COLERIDGE  ON  WORDSWORTH  AND  POETRY 

WORDSWORTH'S   POETRY,   ITS   DEFECTS   AND   BEAUTIES  — 
THE   FORMER   FOR   THE   MOST   PART   CHARAC- 
TERISTIC  OF   HIS   THEORY   ONLY 

(The  long  and  interesting  twenty-second  chapter  contains  a  thorough 
examination  of  Wordsworth,  from  which  the  most  remarkable  parts  are 
here  sifted  out.) 

If  Mr.  Wordsworth,  has  set  forth  principles  of  poetry  which,  his 
arguments  are  insufficient  to  support,  let  him  and  those  who  have 
adopted  his  sentiments  be  set  right  by  the  confutation  of  those 
arguments,  and  by  the  substitution  of  more  philosophical  prin- 
ciples. And  still  let  the  due  credit  be  given  to  the  portion  and 
importance  of  the  truths  which  are  blended  with  his  theory  :  truths, 
the  too  exclusive  attention  to  which  had  occasioned  its  errors,  by 
tempting  him  to  carry  those  truths  beyond  their  proper  limits.  If 
his  mistaken  theory  has  at  all  influenced  his  poetic  compositions, 
let  the  effects  be  pointed  out,  and  the  instances  given.  But  let  it 
likewise  be  shown  how  far  the  influence  has  acted;  whether  dif- 
fusively, or  only  by  starts ;  whether  the  number  and  importance  of 
the  poems  and  passages  thus  infected  be  great  or  trifling  compared 
with  the  sound  portion ;  and  lastly,  whether  they  are  inwoven  into 
the  texture  of  his  works,  or  are  loose  and  separable.  The  result 
of  such  a  trial  would  evince  beyond  a  doubt,  what  it  is  high  time 
to  announce  decisively  and  aloud,  that  the  supposed  character- 
istics of  Mr.  Wordsworth's  poetry,  whether  admired  or  reprobated ; 
whether  they  are  simplicity  or  simpleness ;  faithful  adherence  to 
essential  nature,  or  wilful  selections  from  human  nature  of  its 
meanest  forms  and  under  the  least  attractive  associations  :  are  as 
little  the  real  characteristics  of  his  poetry  at  large,  as  of  his  genius 
and  the  constitution  of  his  mind. 

In  a  comparatively  small  number  of  poems,  he  chose  to  try  an 
experiment;  and  this  experiment  we  will  suppose  to  have  failed. 
Yet  even  in  these  poems  it  is  impossible  not  to  perceive  that  the 
natural  tendency  of  the  poet's  mind  is  to  great  objects  and  elevated 
conceptions.  The  poem  entitled  Fidelity  is  for  the  greater  part 
written  in  language  as  unraised  and  naked  as  any  perhaps  in  the 


WORDSWORTH'S  POETRY  355 

two  volumes.     Yet  take  the  following  stanza  and  compare  it  with 
the  preceding  stanzas  of  the  same  poem : 

There  sometimes  does  a  leaping  fish 
Send  through  the  tarn  a  lonely  cheer; 
The  crags  repeat  the  raven's  croak 
In  symphony  austere; 
Thither  the  rainbow  comes  —  the  cloud, 
And  mists  that  spread  the  flying  shroud; 
And  sunbeams;  and  the  sounding  blast, 
That  if  it  could  would  hurry  past, 
But  that  enormous  barrier  holds  it  fast. 

Or  compare  the  four  last  lines  of  the  concluding  stanza  with  the 

former  half : 

Yet  proof  was  plain  that  since  the  day 

On  which  the  traveller  thus  had  died, 
The  dog  had  watched  about  the  spot, 
Or  by  his  master's  side : 
How  nourished  there  for  such  long  time 
He  knows  who  gave  that  love  sublime, 
And  gave  that  strength  of  feeling,  great 
Above  all  human  estimate. 

Can  any  candid  and  intelligent  mind  hesitate  in  determining 
which  of  these  best  represents  the  tendency  and  native  character 
of  the  poet's  genius  ?  Will  he  not  decide  that  the  one  was  written 
because  the  poet  would  so  write,  and  the  other  because  he  could 
not  so  entirely  repress  the  force  and  grandeur  of  his  mind,  but 
that  he  must  in  some  part  or  other  of  every  composition  write 
otherwise  ?  In  short,  that  his  only  disease  is  the  being  out  of  his 
element;  like  the  swan,  that  having  amused  himself,  for  a  while, 
with  crushing  the  weeds  on  the  river's  bank,  soon  returns  to  his 
own  majestic  movements  on  its  reflecting  and  sustaining  surface. 

The  first  characteristic,  though  only  occasional  defect,  which  I 
appear  to  myself  to  find  in  these  poems  is  the  inconstancy  of  the 
style.  Under  this  name  I  refer  to  the  sudden  and  unprepared 
transitions  from  lines  or  sentences  of  peculiar  felicity  (at  all  events 
striking  and  original)  to  a  style,  not  only  unimpassioned  but  undis- 
tinguished. He  sinks  too  often  and  too  abruptly  to  that  style  which 
I  should  place  in  the  second  division  of  language,  dividing  it  into 


356         COLERIDGE  OX  WORDSWORTH   AND  POETRY 

the  three  species :  first,  that  which  is  peculiar  to  poetry ;  second, 
that  which  is  only  proper  in  prose ;  and  third,  the  neutral  or  com- 
mon to  both.  There  have  been  works,  such  as  Cowley's  Essay  on 
Cromwell,  in  which  prose  and  verse  are  intermixed  (not  as  in  the 
Consolation  of  Boetius,  or  the  Argents  of  Barclay,  by  the  insertion 
of  poems  supposed  to  have  been  spoken  or  composed  on  occasions 
previously  related  in  prose,  but)  the  poet  passing  from  one  to  the 
other  as  the  nature  of  the  thoughts  or  his  own  feelings  dictated. 
Yet  this  mode  of  composition  does  not  satisfy  a  cultivated  taste. 
There  is  something  unpleasant  in  the  being  thus  obliged  to  alternate 
states  of  feeling  so  dissimilar,  and  this  too  in  a  species  of  writing, 
the  pleasure  from  which  is  in  part  derived  from  the  preparation  and 
previous  expectation  of  the  reader.  A  portion  of  that  awkwardness 
is  felt  which  hangs  upon  the  introduction  of  songs  in  our  modern 
comic  operas ;  and  to  prevent  which  the  judicious  Metastasio  (as 
to  whose  exquisite  taste  there  can  be  no  hesitation,  whatever  doubts 
may  be  entertained  as  to  his  poetic  genius)  uniformly  placed  the 
aria  at  the  end  of  the  scene,  at  the  same  time  that  he  almost  always 
raises  and  impassions  the  style  of  the  recitative  immediately  pre- 
ceding. Even  in  real  life,  the  difference  is  great  and  evident 
between  words  used  as  the  arbitrary  marks  of  thought,  our  smooth 
market-coin  of  intercourse  with  the  image  and  superscription  worn 
out  by  currency,  and  those  which  convey  pictures  either  borrowed 
from  one  outward  object  to  enliven  and  particularize  some  other ; 
or  used  allegorically  to  body  forth  the  inward  state  of  the  person 
speaking ;  or  such  as  are  at  least  the  exponents  of  his  peculiar  turn 
and  unusual  extent  of  faculty.  So  much  so,  indeed,  that  in  the 
social  circles  of  private  life  we  often  find  a  striking  use  of  the  latter 
put  a  stop  to  the  general  flow  of  conversation,  and  by  the  excite- 
ment arising  from  concentred  attention  produce  a  sort  of  damp  and 
interruption  for  some  minutes  after.  But  in  the  perusal  of  works 
of  literary  art,  we  prepare  ourselves  for  such  language ;  and  the 
business  of  the  writer,  like  that  of  a  painter  whose  subject  requires 
unusual  splendour  and  prominence,  is  so  to  raise  the  lower  and 
neutral  tints,  that  what  in  a  different  style  would  be  the  command- 
ing colours,  are  here  used  as  the  means  of  that  gentle  degradation 
requisite  in  order  to  produce  the  effect  of  a  whole.  Where  this 


WORDSWORTH'S   POETRY  357 

is  not  achieved  in  a  poem,  the  metre  merely  reminds  the  reader 
of  his  claims  in  order  to  disappoint  them ;  and  where  this  defect 
occurs  frequently,  his  feelings  are  alternately  startled  by  anticlimax 
and  hyperclimax. 

Examples  follow  :  Resolution  and  Independence  being  selected  as  "  espe- 
cially characteristic  "  both  of  Wordsworth's  defects  and  of  his  excellences. 

The  second  defect  I  could  generalize  with  tolerable  accuracy,  if 
the  reader  will  pardon  an  uncouth  and  new-coined  word.  There 
is,  I  should  say,  not  seldom  a  matter-of-factness  in  certain  poems. 
This  may  be  divided  into,  first,  a  laborious  minuteness  and  fidelity 
in  the  representation  of  objects,  and  their  positions,  as  they  appeared 
to  the  poet  himself;  secondly,  the  insertion  of  accidental  circum- 
stances, in  order  to  the  full  explanation  of  his  living  characters, 
their  dispositions  and  actions  :  which  circumstances  might  be  necess- 
ary to  establish  the  probability  of  a  statement  in  real  life,  where 
nothing  is  taken  for  granted  by  the  hearer,  but  appear  superfluous 
in  poetry,  where  the  reader  is  willing  to  believe  for  his  own  sake. 
To  this  accidentality,  I  object,  as  contravening  the  essence  of  poetry, 
which  Aristotle  pronounces  to  be  o-TrovSaioTarov  Kul  <£iAoo-o<£coTo.Tov 
ye'vos,  the  most  intense,  weighty,  and  philosophical  product  of  human 
art ;  adding,  as  the  reason,  that  it  is  the  most  catholic  and  abstract. 
The  following  passage  from  Davenant's  prefatory  letter  to  Hobbes 
well  expresses  this  truth :  "  When  I  considered  the  actions  which  I 
meant  to  describe  (those  inferring  the  persons)  I  was  again  per- 
suaded rather  to  choose  those  of  a  former  age  than  the  present ;  and 
in  a  century  so  far  removed  as  might  preserve  me  from  their 
improper  examinations,  who  know  not  the  requisites  of  a  poem,  nor 
how  much  pleasure  they  lose  (and  even  the  pleasures  of  heroic 
poesy  are  not  unprofitable)  who  take  away  the  liberty  of  a  poet, 
and  fetter  his  feet  in  the  shackles  of  an  historian.  For  why  should 
a  poet  doubt  in  story  to  mend  the  intrigues  of  fortune  by  more 
delightful  conveyances  of  probable  fictions,  because  austere  histori- 
ans have  entered  into  bond  to  truth  ?  An  obligation,  which  were 
in  poets  as  foolish  and  unnecessary,  as  is  the  bondage  of  false 
martyrs,  who  lie  in  chains  for  a  mistaken  opinion.  But  by  this  I 
would  imply,  that  truth,  narrative  and  past,  is  the  idol  of  historians 


358         COLERIDGE   ON  WORDSWORTH    AND  POETRY 

(who  worship  a  dead  thing}  and  truth  operative,  and  by  effects  con- 
tinually alive,  is  the  mistress  of  poets,  who  hath  not  her  existence  in 
matter,  but  in  reason" 

Instances  and  discussion,  chiefly  from  The  Excursion,  follow ;  and  Cole- 
ridge meets  Wordsworth  full  in  the  following. 

Is  there  one  word,  for  instance,  attributed  to  the  pedlar  in  The 
Excursion,  characteristic  of  a  pedlar?  One  sentiment,  that  might 
not  more  plausibly,  even  without  the  aid  of  any  previous  explana- 
tion, have  proceeded  from  any  wise  and  beneficent  old  man  of  a 
rank  or  profession  in  which  the  language  of  learning  and  refinement 
are  naturally  to  be  expected  ?  Need  the  rank  have  been  at  all  parti- 
cularized, where  nothing  follows  which  the  knowledge  of  that  rank 
is  to  explain  or  illustrate  ?  When  on  the  contrary  this  information 
renders  the  man's  language,  feelings,  sentiments,  and  information 
a  riddle,  which  must  itself  be  solved  by  episodes  of  ancedote  ? 
Finally,  when  this  and  this  alone,  could  have  induced  a  genuine 
poet  to  inweave  in  a  poem  of  the  loftiest  style,  and  on  subjects  the 
loftiest  and  of  the  most  universal  interest,  such  minute  matters  of 
fact,  not  unlike  those  furnished  for  the  obituary  of  a  magazine  by 
the  friends  of  some  obscure  "  ornament  of  society  lately  deceased  " 
in  some  obscure  town,  as 

Among  the  hills  of  Athol  he  was  born. 
There  on  a  small  hereditary  farm, 
An  unproductive  slip  of  rugged  ground, 
His  Father  dwelt ;  and  died  in  poverty : 
While  he,  whose  lowly  fortune  I  retrace, 
The  youngest  of  three  sons,  was  yet  a  babe, 
A  little  one  —  unconscious  of  their  loss. 
But  ere  he  had  outgrown  his  infant  days 
His  widowed  mother,  for  a  second  mate, 
Espoused  the  teacher  of  the  Village  School; 
Who  on  her  offspring  zealously  bestowed 
Needful  instruction. 

From  his  sixth  year,  the  Boy  of  whom  I  speak, 

In  summer  tended  cattle  on  the  hills ; 

But  through  the  inclement  and  the  perilous  days 

Of  long-continuing  winter,  he  repaired 

To  his  step-father's  school, 

etc.  The  Excursion  Bk.  I. 


WORDSWORTH'S  POETRY  359 

For  all  the  admirable  passages  interposed  in  this  narration,  might, 
with  trifling  alterations,  have  been  far  more  appropriately,  and  with 
far  greater  verisimilitude,  told  of  a  poet  in  the  character  of  a  poet ; 
and  without  incurring  another  defect  which  I  shall  now  mention, 
and  a  sufficient  illustration  of  which  will  have  been  here  anticipated. 

Third  [JZ,  Inequality  of  style ;  2,  Matter-of-factness~\ ;  an  undue 
predilection  for  the  dramatic  form  in  certain  poems,  from  which  one 
or  other  of  two  evils  result.  Either  the  thoughts  and  diction  are 
different  from  that  of  the  poet,  and  then  there  arises  an  incongruity 
of  style;  or  they  are  the  same  and  indistinguishable,  and  then  it 
presents  a  species  of  ventriloquism,  where  two  are  represented  as 
talking,  while  in  truth  one  man  only  speaks. 

The  fourth  class  of  defects  is  closely  connected  with  the  former;  but 
yet  are  such  as  arise  likewise  from  an  intensity  of  feeling  dispropor- 
tionate to  such  knowledge  and  value  of  the  objects  described,  as  can 
be  fairly  anticipated  of  men  in  general,  even  of  the  most  cultivated 
classes ;  and  with  which  therefore  few  only,  and  those  few  particu- 
larly circumstanced,  can  be  supposed  to  sympathize  :  in  this  class,  I 
comprise  occasional  prolixity,  repetition,  and  an  eddying  instead  of 
progression  of  thought.  As  instances,  see  pages  27, 28,  of  the  Poems, 
vol.  i,*  and  the  first  eighty  lines  of  the  Sixth  Book  of  The  Excursion. 

Fifth  and  last;  thoughts  and  images  too  great  for  the  subject.  This 
is  an  approximation  to  what  might  be  called  mental  bombast,  as  dis- 
tinguished from  verbal :  for,  as  in  the  latter  there  is  a  disproportion 
of  the  expressions  to  the  thoughts,  so  in  this  there  is  a  dispropor- 
tion of  thought  to  the  circumstance  and  occasion.  This,  by-the-by, 
is  a  fault  of  which  none  but  a  man  of  genius  is  capable.  It  is  the 
awkwardness  and  strength  of  Hercules  with  the  distaff  of  Omphale. 

It  is  a  well-known  fact,  that  bright  colours  in  motion  both  make 
and  leave  the  strongest  impressions  on  the  eye.  Nothing  is  more 
likely  too,  than  that  a  vivid  image  or  visual  spectrum,  thus  origin- 
ated, may  become  the  link  of  association  in  recalling  the  feelings 
and  images  that  had  accompanied  the  original  impression.  But  if 
we  describe  this  in  such  lines,  as 

They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye, 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude  I 

*  The  Anecdote  for  Fathers. 


360        COLERIDGE  ON  WORDSWORTH  AND  POETRY 

in  what  words  shall  we  describe  the  joy  of  retrospection,  when  the 
images  and  virtuous  actions  of  a  whole  well-spent  life,  pass  before 
that  conscience  which  is  indeed  the  inward  eye  :  which  is  indeed 
"the  bliss  of  solitude  ?"  Assuredly  we  seem  to  sink  most  abruptly, 
not  to  say  burlesquely,  and  almost  as  in  a  medley,  from  this 

couplet  to 

And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 
And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 

Vol.  i  p.  320.* 

To  these  defects  which,  as  appears  by  the  extracts,  are  only 
occasional,  I  may  oppose  with  far  less  fear  of  encountering  the  dis- 
sent of  any  candid  and  intelligent  reader,  the  following  (for  the  most 
part  correspondent)  excellences.  First,  an  austere  purity  of  langu- 
age both  grammatically  and  logically ;  in  short  a  perfect  appropriate- 
ness of  the  words  to  the  meaning.  Of  how  high  value  I  deem  this, 
and  how  particularly  estimable  I  hold  the  example  at  the  present 
day,  has  been  already  stated :  and  in  part  too  the  reasons  on  which 
I  ground  both  the  moral  and  intellectual  importance  of  habituating 
ourselves  to  a  strict  accuracy  of  expression.  It  is  noticeable,  how 
limited  an  acquaintance  with  the  masterpieces  of  art  will  suffice  to 
form  a  correct  and  even  a  sensitive  taste,  where  none  but  master- 
pieces have  been  seen  and  admired :  while  on  the  other  hand,  the 
most  correct  notions,  and  the  widest  acquaintance  with  the  works 
of  excellence  of  all  ages  and  countries,  will  not  perfectly  secure  us 
against  the  contagious  familiarity  with  the  far  more  numerous  off- 
spring of  tastelessness  or  of  a  perverted  taste.  If  this  be  the  case, 
as  it  notoriously  is,  with  the  arts  of  music  and  painting,  much  more 
difficult  will  it  be,  to  avoid  the  infection  of  multiplied  and  daily 
examples  in  the  practice  of  an  art,  which  uses  words,  and  words 
only,  as  its  instruments.  In  poetry,  in  which  every  line,  every 
phrase,  may  pass  the  ordeal  of  deliberation  and  deliberate  choice, 
it  is  possible,  and  barely  possible,  to  attain  that  ultimatum  which 

*  The  poem  commencing  "  I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud."  [Here  Coleridge 
may  be  thought  to  be  hypercritical.  Some  who  are  by  no  means  Words- 
worthians  see  no  burlesque,  but  a  real  Shakespearean  poetry,  here. '  Something 
of  a  cavil,  too,  follows  at  The  Ode.  It  may  be  not  uncharitably  suspected  that 
Coleridge  felt  his  philosophic  province  invaded.] 


WORDSWORTH'S  POETRY  361 

I  have  ventured  to  propose  as  the  infallible  test  of  a  blameless 
style,  namely,  its  untranslatableness  in  words  of  the  same  language 
without  injury  to  the  meaning. 

The  second  characteristic  excellence  of  Mr.  Wordsworth's  works 
is :  a  correspondent  weight  and  sanity  of  the  thoughts  and  senti- 
ments,—  won,  not  from  books,  but  —  from  the  poet's  own  medita- 
tive observation.  They  are  fresh,  and  have  the  dew  upon  them. 
His  muse,  at  least  when  in  her  strength  of  wing,  and  when  she 
hovers  aloft  in  her  proper  element, 

Makes  audible  a  linked  lay  of  truth, 

Of  truth  profound  a  sweet  continuous  lay, 

Not  learnt,  but  native,  her  own  natural  notes ! 

S.  T.  C. 

Even  throughout  his  smaller  poems  there  is  scarcely  one,  which 
is  not  rendered  valuable  by  some  just  and  original  reflection. 

Both  in  respect  of  this  and  of  the  former  excellence,  Mr.  Words- 
worth strikingly  resembles  Samuel  Daniel,  one  of  the  golden  writers 
of  our  golden  Elizabethan  age,  now  most  causelessly  neglected : 
Samuel  Daniel,  whose  diction  bears  no  mark  of  time,  no  distinction 
of  age,  which  has  been,  and  as  long  as  our  language  shall  last  will 
be,  so  far  the  language  of  the  to-day  and  for  ever,  as  that  it  is  more 
intelligible  to  us,  than  the  transitory  fashions  of  our  own  particular 
age.  A  similar  praise  is  due  to  his  sentiments.  No  frequency  of 
perusal  can  deprive  them  of  their  freshness.  For  though  they  are 
brought  into  the  full  daylight  of  every  reader's  comprehension,  yet 
are  they  drawn  up  from  depths  which  few  in  any  age  are  privileged  to 
visit,  into  which  few  in  any  age  have  courage  or  inclination  to  descend. 
If  Mr.  Wordsworth  is  not  equally  with  Daniel  alike  intelligible  to 
all  readers  of  average  understanding  in  all  passages  of  his  works, 
the  comparative  difficulty  does  not  arise  from  the  greater  impurity 
of  the  ore,  but  from  the  nature  and  uses  of  the  metal.  A  poem  is 
not  necessarily  obscure,  because  it  does  not  aim  to  be  popular. 
It  is  enough,  if  a  work  be  perspicuous  to  those  for  whom  it  is 
written,  and 

Fit  audience  find,  though  few. 


362         COLERIDGE   ON  WORDSWORTH  AND   POETRY 

Third  (and  wherein  he  soars  far  above  Daniel)  the  sinewy  strength 
and  originality  of  single  lines  and  paragraphs  :  the  frequent  curiosa 
felicitas  of  his  diction,  of  which  I  need  not  here  give  specimens, 
having  anticipated  them  in  a  preceding  page.  This  beauty,  and 
as  eminently  characteristic  of  Wordsworth's  poetry,  his  rudest 
assailants  have  felt  themselves  compelled  to  acknowledge  and 
admire. 

Fourth :  the  perfect  truth  of  nature  in  his  images  and  descrip- 
tions as  taken  immediately  from  nature,  and  proving  a  long  and 
genial  intimacy  with  the  very  spirit  which  gives  the  physiognomic 
expression  to  all  the  works  of  nature.  Like  a  green  field  reflected 
in  a  calm  and  perfectly  transparent  lake,  the  image  is  distinguished 
from  the  reality  only  by  its  greater  softness  and  lustre.  Like  the 
moisture  of  the  polish  on  a  pebble,  genius  neither  distorts  nor  false- 
colours  its  objects  ;  but  on  the  contrary  brings  out  many  a  vein  and 
many  a  tint,  which  escape  the  eye  of  common  observation,  thus 
raising  to  the  rank  of  gems  what  had  been  often  kicked  away  by 
the  hurrying  foot  of  the  traveller  on  the  dusty  highroad  of  custom. 

Fifth :  a  meditative  pathos,  a  union  of  deep  and  subtle  thought 
with  sensibility;  a  sympathy  with  man  as  man;  the  sympathy 
indeed  of  a  contemplator,  rather  than  a  fellow-sufferer  or  co-mate 
(spectator,  haud  particepsj,  but  of  a  contemplator,  from  whose  view 
no  difference  of  rank  conceals  the  sameness  of  the  nature  ;  no  injuries 
of  wind  or  weather,  of  toil,  or  even  of  ignorance,  wholly  disguise  the 
human  face  divine.  The  superscription  and  the  image  of  the  Creator 
still  remain  legible  to  him  under  the  dark  lines,  with  which  guilt  or 
calamity  had  cancelled  or  cross-barred  it.  Here  the  man  and  the 
poet  lose  and  find  themselves  in  each  other,  the  one  as  glorified, 
the  latter  as  substantiated.  In  this  mild  and  philosophic  pathos, 
Wordsworth  appears  to  me  without  a  compeer.  Such  he  is:  so  he 
writes. 

Lastly,  and  preeminently,  I  challenge  for  this  poet  the  gift  of 
Imagination  in  the  highest  and  strictest  sense  of  the  word.  In 
the  play  of  fancy,  Wordsworth,  to  my  feelings,  is  not  always 
graceful,  and  sometimes  recondite.  The  likeness  is  occasionally 


WORDSWORTH'S   POETRY  363 

too  strange,  or  demands  too  peculiar  a  point  of  view,  or  is  such 
as  appears  the  creature  of  predetermined  research,  rather  than 
spontaneous  presentation.  Indeed  his  fancy  seldom  displays  itself 
as  mere  and  unmodified  fancy.  But  in  imaginative  power,  he 
stands  nearest  of  all  modern  writers  to  Shakespeare  and  Milton; 
and  yet  in  a  kind  perfectly  unborrowed  and  his  own.  To  employ 
his  own  words,  which  are  at  once  an  instance  and  an  illustration, 
he  does  indeed  to  all  thoughts  and  to  all  objects  — 

add  the  gleam, 

The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land, 
The  consecration,  and  the  poet's  dream. 

Elegiac  Stanzas  on  a  Picture  of  Peele  Castle. 

The  preceding  criticism  will  not,  I  am  aware,  avail  to  overcome 
the  prejudices  of  those  who  have  made  it  a  business  to  attack  and 
ridicule  Mr.  Wordsworth's  compositions. 

Truth  and  prudence  might  be  imaged  as  concentric  circles.  The 
poet  may  perhaps  have  passed  beyond  the  latter,  but  he  has  con- 
fined himself  far  within  the  bounds  of  the  former,  in  designating 
these  critics,  as  too  petulant  to  be  passive  to  a  genuine  poet,  and 
too  feeble  to  grapple  with  him  ;  —  "  men  of  palsied  imaginations,  in 
whose  minds  all  healthy  action  is  languid ;  —  who  therefore,  feel 
as  the  many  direct  them,  or  with  the  niany  are  greedy  after  vicious 
provocatives." 

Let  not  Mr.  Wordsworth  be  charged  with  having  expressed  him- 
self too  indignantly,  till  the  wantonness  and  the  systematic  and 
malignant  perseverance  of  the  aggressions  have  been  taken  into 
fair  consideration.  I  myself  heard  the  commander-in-chief  of  this 
unmanly  warfare  make  a  boast  of  his  private  admiration  of  Words- 
worth's genius.  I  have  heard  him  declare,  that  whoever  came  into 
his  room  would  probably  find  the  Lyrical  Ballads  lying  open  on 
his  table,  and  that  (speaking  exclusively  of  those  written  by  Mr. 
Wordsworth  himself)  he  could  nearly  repeat  the  whole  of  them  by 
heart.  But  a  Keview,  in  order  to  be  a  saleable  article,  must  be 
personal,  sharp,  and  pointed :  and,  since  then,  the  poet  has  made 
himself,  and  with  himself  all  who  were,  or  were  supposed  to  be, 
his  friends  and  admirers,  the  object  of  the  critic's  revenge  —  how? 


364        COLERIDGE  OX  WORDSWORTH  AND  POETRY 

by  having  spoken  of  a  work  so  conducted  in  the  terms  which  it 
deserved !  I  once  heard  a  clergymen  in  boots  and  buckskin  avow, 
that  he  would  cheat  his  own  father  in  a  horse.  A  moral  system  of 
a  similar  nature  seems  to  have  been  adopted  by  too  many  anonym- 
ous critics.  As  we  used  to  say  at  school,  in  reviewing  they  make 
believe  being  rogues :  and  he  who  complains  is  to  be  laughed  at  for 
his  ignorance  of  the  game.  With  the  pen  out  of  their  hand  they 
are  honourable  men.  They  exert  indeed  power  (which  is  to  that 
of  the  injured  party  who  should  attempt  to  expose  their  glaring 
perversions  and  mis-statements,  as  twenty  to  one)  to  write  down, 
and  (where  the  author's  circumstances  permit)  to  impoverish  the 
man,  whose  learning  and  genius  they  themselves  in  private  have 
repeatedly  admitted.  They  knowingly  strive  to  make  it  impossible 
for  the  man  even  to  publish*  any  future  work  without  exposing 
himself  to  all  the  wretchedness  of  debt  and  embarrassment.  But 
this  is  all  in  their  vocation :  and  bating  what  they  do  in  their 
vocation,  "who  can  say  that  black  is  the  white  of  their  eye?" 

So  much  for  the  detractors  from  Wordsworth's  merits.  On  the 
other  hand,  much  as  I  might  wish  for  their  fuller  sympathy,  I  dare 
not  flatter  myself,  that  the  freedom  with  which  I  have  declared 
my  opinions  concerning  both  his  theory  and  his  defects,  most  of 
which  are  more  or  less  connected  with  his  theory  either  as  cause  or 
effect,  will  be  satisfactory  or  pleasing  to  all  the  poet's  admirers  and 
advocates.  More  indiscriminate  than  mine  their  admiration  may 
be  :  deeper  and  more  sincere  it  cannot  be.  But  I  have  advanced 
no  opinion  either  for  praise  or  censure,  other  than  as  texts  intro- 
ductory to  the  reasons  which  compel  me  to  form  it.  Above  all,  I 
was  fully  convinced  that  such  a  criticism  was  not  only  wanted ; 
but  that,  if  executed  with  adequate  ability,  it  must  conduce  in  no 
mean  degree  to  Mr.  Wordsworth's  reputation.  His  fame  belongs 
to  another  age,  and  can  neither  be  accelerated  nor  retarded.  How 
small  the  proportion  of  the  defects  are  to  the  beauties,  I  have 

*  Not  many  months  ago  an  eminent  bookseller  was  asked  what  he  thought 

of ?    The  answer  was  :  "I  have  heard  his  powers  very  highly  spoken  of 

by  some  of  our  first-rate  men ;  but  I  would  not  have  a  work  of  his  if  any  one 
would  give  it  me :  for  he  is  spoken  but  slightly  of,  or  not  at  all,  in  the  Quarterly 
Review:  and  the  Edinburgh,  you  know,  is  decided  to  cut  him  up!" 


WORDSWORTH'S  POETRY  365 

repeatedly  declared ;  and  that  no  one  of  them  originates  in  defi- 
ciency of  poetic  genius.  Had  they  been  more  and  greater,  I  should 
still,  as  a  friend  to  his  literary  character  in  the  present  age,  consider 
an  analytic  display  of  them  as  pure  gain;  if  only  it  removed,  as 
surely  to  all  reflecting  minds  even  the  foregoing  analysis  must  have 
removed,  the  strange  mistake  so  slightly  grounded,  yet  so  widely 
and  industriously  propagated,  of  Mr.  Wordsworth's  turn  for  sim- 
plicity !  I  am  not  half  as  much  irritated  by  hearing  his  enemies 
abuse  him  for  vulgarity  of  style,  subject,  and  conception,  as  I  am 
disgusted  with  the  gilded  side  of  the  same  meaning,  as  displayed 
by  some  affected  admirers  with  whom  he  is,  forsooth,  "a  sweet, 
simple  poet!"  and  so  natural,  that  little  master  Charles,  and  his 
younger  sister,  are  so  charmed  with  them,  that  they  play  at  Goody 
Blake,  or  at  Johnny  and  Betty  Foy ! 


ON  CRITICISM   [IN   GENERAL] 

(Hazlitt,  one  of  the  very  greatest  of  English  critics,  had  perhaps  less 
reading  in  criticism  than  any*other.  His  coincidences  -with  older  writers 
(as,  for  instance,  that  noted  in  the  contrast  of  Pope  and  Crabbe  below)  are 
all  the  more  interesting.  It  has  not  been  possible,  nor  for  the  purpose  of  this 
book  would  it  be  strictly  in  place,  to  quote  his  numerous  and  wonderful 
appreciations  of  English  writers  freely;  that  just  referred  to  is  excepted 
because  of  its  general  outshot.  There  is  an  excellent  collection  of  his  main 
essays  in  poetic  criticism  of  English  —  he  is  of  no  authority  on  any  other 
language  —  edited  by  Mr.  D.  Nichol  Smith  (Edinburgh  1901).  But  he  is 
everywhere  "  nothing  if  not  critical.") 

Criticism  is  an  art  that  undergoes  a  great  variety  of  changes, 
and  aims  at  different  objects  at  different  times. 

At  first,  it  is  generally  satisfied  to  give  an  opinion  whether  a 
work  is  good  or  bad,  and  to  quote  a  passage  or  two  in  support  of 
this  opinion  ;  afterwards,  it  is  bound  to  assign  the  reasons  of  its 
decision  and  to  analyze  supposed  beauties  or  defects  with  micro- 
scopic minuteness.  A  critic  does  nothing  nowadays  who  does  not 
try  to  torture  the  most  obvious  expression  into  a  thousand  mean- 
ings, and  enter  into  a  circuitous  explanation  of  all  that  can  be  urged 
for  or  against  its  being  in  the  best  or  worst  style  possible.  His 
object  indeed  is  not  to  do  justice  to  his  author,  whom  he  treats  with 
very  little  ceremony,  but  to  do  himself  homage,  and  to  show  his 
acquaintance  with  all  the  topics  and  resources  of  criticism.  If  he 
recurs  to  the  stipulated  subject  in  the  end,  it  is  not  till  after  he  has 
exhausted  his  budget  of  general  knowledge ;  and  he  establishes  his 
own  claims  first  in  an  elaborate  inaugural  dissertation  de  omni 
scibili  et  quibusdam  aliis,  before  he  deigns  to  bring  forward  the 

366 


ON  CRITICISM  [IN  GENERAL]  367 

pretensions  of  the  original  candidate  for  praise,  who  is  only  the 
second  figure  in  the  piece.  We  may  sometimes  see  articles  of  this 
sort,  in  which  no  allusion  whatever  is  made  to  the  work  under 
sentence  of  death,  after  the  first  announcement  of  the  title-page ; 
and  I  apprehend  it  would  be  a  clear  improvement  on  this  species  of 
nominal  criticism  to  give  stated  periodical  accounts  of  works  that 
had  never  appeared  at  all,  which  would  save  the  hapless  author  the 
mortification  of  writing,  and  his  reviewer  the  trouble  of  reading 
them.  If  the  real  author  is  made  of  so  little  account  by  the  modern 
critic,  he  is  scarcely  more  an  object  of  regard  to  the  modern  reader ; 
and  it  must  be  confessed  that  after  a  dozen  close-packed  pages  of 
subtle  metaphysical  distinction  or  solemn  didactic  declamation,  in 
which  the  disembodied  principles  of  all  arts  and  sciences  float  before 
the  imagination  in  undefined  profusion,  the  eye  turns  with  impati- 
ence and  indifference  to  the  imperfect  embryo  specimens  of  them, 
and  the  hopeless  attempts  to  realize  this  splendid  jargon  in  one  poor 
work  by  one  poor  author,  which  is  given  up  to  summary  execution 
with  as  little  justice  as  pity.  "  As  when  a  well-graced  actor  leaves 
the  stage,  men's  eyes  are  idly  bent  on  him  that  enters  next " —  so  it 
is' here.  Whether  this  state  of  the  press  is  not  a  serious  abuse  and 
a  violent  encroachment  in  the  republic  of  letters  is  more  than  I 
shall  pretend  to  determine.  The  truth  is,  that  in  the  quantity  of 
works  that  issue  from  the  press,  it  is  utterly  impossible  they  should 
all  be  read  by  all  sorts  of  people.  There  must  be  tasters  for  the 
public,  who  must  have  a  discretionary  power  vested  in  them,  for 
which  it  is  difficult  to  make  them  properly  accountable.  Authors, 
in  proportion  to  their  numbers,  become  not  formidable,  but  despic- 
able. They  would  not  be  heard  of  or  severed  from  the  crowd 
without  the  critic's  aid,  and  all  complaints  of  ill-treatment  are  vain. 
He  considers  them  as  pensioners  on  his  bounty  for  any  pittance  of 
praise,  and  in  general  sets  them  up  as  butts  for  his  wit  and  spleen, 
or  uses  them  as  a  stalking-horse  to  convey  his  own  favourite  notions 
and  opinions,  which  he  can  do  by  this  means  without  the  possibility 
of  censure  or  appeal.  He  looks  upon  his  literary  protege  (much  as 
Peter  Pounce  looked  upon  Parson  Adams)  as  a  kind  of  humble 
companion  or  unnecessary  interloper  in  the  vehicle  of  fame,  whom 
he  has  taken  up  purely  to  oblige  him,  and  whom  he  may  treat  with 


368  HAZLITT 

neglect  or  insult,  or  set  down  in  the  common  footpath  whenever  it 
suits  his  humour  or  convenience.  He  naturally  grows  arbitrary 
with  the  exercise  of  power.  He  by  degrees  wants  to  have  a  clear 
stage  to  himself,  and  would  be  thought  to  have  purchased  a  mono- 
poly of  wit,  learning,  and  wisdom  — 

Assumes  the  rod,  affects  the  God, 
And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 

Besides,  something  of  this  overbearing  manner  goes  a  great  way 
with  the  public.  They  cannot  exactly  tell  whether  you  are  right  or 
wrong ;  and  if  you  state  your  difficulties  or  pay  much  deference  to 
the  sentiments  of  others,  they  will  think  you  a  very  silly  fellow  or 
a  mere  pretender.  A  sweeping,  unqualified  assertion  ends  all  con- 
troversy, and  sets  opinion  at  rest.  A  sharp,  sententious,  cavalier, 
dogmatical  tone  is  therefore  necessary,  even  in  self-defence,  to  the 
office  of  a  reviewer.  If  you  do  not  deliver  your  oracles  without 
hesitation,  how  are  the  world  to  receive  them  on  trust  and  without 
enquiry  ?  People  read  to  have  something  to  talk  about,  and  "  to 
seem  to  know  that  which  they  do  not."  Consequently,  there  can- 
not be  too  much  dialectics  and  debatable  matter,  too  much  pomp 
and  paradox,  in  a  review.  To  elevate  and  surprise  is  the  great  rule 
for  producing  a  dramatic  or  a  critical  effect.  The  more  you  startle 
the  reader,  the  more  he  will  be  able  to  startle  others  with  a  succes- 
sion of  smart  intellectual  shocks.  The  most  admired  of  our  Reviews 
is  saturated  with  this  sort  of  electrical  matter,  which  is  regularly 
played  off  so  as  to  produce  a  good  deal  of  astonishment  and  a  strong 
sensation  in  the  public  mind.  The  intrinsic  merits  of  an  author  are 
a  question  of  very  subordinate  consideration  to  the  keeping  up  the 
character  of  the  work  and  supplying  the  town  with  a  sufficient 
number  of  grave  or  brilliant  topics  for  the  consumption  of  the  next 
three  months ! 

This  decided  and  paramount  tone  in  criticism  is  the  growth  of  the 
present  century,  and  was  not  at  all  the  fashion  in  that  calm,  peace- 
able period  when  the  Monthly  Review  bore  "  sole  sovereign  sway 
and  masterdom  "  over  all  literary  productions.1 

1  Hazlitt  then  gives  an  account  of  this  18th-century  periodical. 


ON  CRITICISM  [IN  GENERAL]  369 

Neither  are  we  less  removed  at  present  from  the  dry  and  meagre 
mode  of  dissecting  the  skeletons  of  works,  instead  of  transfusing 
their  living  principles,  which  prevailed  in  Dryden's  Prefaces,*  and 
in  the  criticisms  written  on  the  model  of  the  French  School  about  a 
century  ago.  A  genuine  criticism  should,  as  I  take  it,  reflect  the 
colours,  the  light  and  shade,  the  soul  and  body  of  a  work  :  here  we 
have  nothing  but  its  superficial  plan  and  elevation,  as  if  a  poem 
were  a  piece  of  formal  architecture.  We  are  told  something  of  the 
plot  or  fable,  of  the  moral,  and  of  the  observance  or  violation  of  the 
three  unities  of  time,  place,  and  action ;  and  perhaps  a  word  or  two 
is  added  on  the  dignity  of  the  persons  or  the  baldness  of  the  style : 
but  we  no  more  know,  after  reading  one  of  these  complacent  tirades, 
what  the  essence  of  the  work  is,  what  passion  has  been  touched,  or 
how  skilfully,  what  tone  and  movement  the  author's  mind  imparts 
to  his  subject  or  receives  from  it,  than  if  we  had  been  reading  a 
homily  or  a  gazette.  That  is,  we  are  left  quite  in  the  dark  as  to 
the  feelings  of  pleasure  or  pain  to  be  derived  from  the  genius  of  the 
performance  or  the  manner  in  which  it  appeals  to  the  imagination : 
we  know  to  a  nicety  how  it  squares  with  the  threadbare  rules  of 
composition,  not  in  the  least  how  it  affects  the  principles  of  taste. 
We  know  everything  about  the  work,  and  nothing  of  it.  The  critic 
takes  good  care  not  to  balk  the  reader's  fancy  by  anticipating  the 
effect  which  the  author  has  aimed  at  producing.  To  be  sure,  the 
works  so  handled  were  often  worthy  of  their  commentators  :  they 
had  the  form  of  imagination  without  the  life  or  power ;  and  when 
any  one  had  gone  regularly  throxigh  the  number  of  acts  into  which 
they  were  divided,  the  measure  in  which  they  were  written,  or  the 
story  on  which  they  were  founded,  there  was  little  else  to  be  said 
about  them.  It  is  curious  to  observe  the  effect  which  the  Paradise 
Lost  had  on  this  class  of  critics,  like  throwing  a  tub  to  a  whale  : 
they  could  make  nothing  of  it.  "  It  was  out  of  all  plumb  —  not  one 
of  the  angles  at  the  four  corners  was  a  right  angle ! "  They  did 
not  seek  for,  nor  would  they  much  relish,  the  marrow  of  poetry 
it  contained.  Like  polemics  in  religion,  they  had  discarded  the 

*  There  are  some  splendid  exceptions  to  this  censure.  His  comparison 
between  Ovid  and  Virgil  and  his  character  of  Shakespeare  are  masterpieces  of 
their  kind. 


370  HAZLITT 

essentials  of  fine  writing  for  the  outward  form  and  points  of  con- 
troversy. They  were  at  issue  with  Genius  and  Nature  by  what 
route  and  in  what  garb  they  should  enter  the  Temple  of  the  Muses. 
Accordingly  we  find  that  Dryden  had  no  other  way  of  satisfying 
himself  of  the  pretensions  of  Milton  in  the  epic  style  but  by  trans- 
lating his  anomalous  work  into  rhyme  and  dramatic  dialogue.  So 
there  are  connoisseurs  who  give  you  the  subject,  the  grouping,  the 
perspective,  and  all  the  mechanical  circumstances  of  a  picture, 
but  never  say  a  word  about  the  expression.  The  reason  is,  they  see 
the  former,  but  not  the  latter.1 

Some  kinds  of  criticism  are  as  much  too  insipid  as  others  are 
too  pragmatical.  It  is  not  easy  to  combine  point  with  solidity, 
spirit  with  moderation  and  candour.  Many  persons  see  nothing 
but  beauties  in  a  work,  others  nothing  but  defects.  Those  cloy  you 
with  sweets,  and  are  "  the  very  milk  of  human  kindness,"  flowing 
on  in  a  stream  of  luscious  panegyrics ;  these  take  delight  in  poison- 
ing the  sources  of  your  satisfaction,  and  putting  you  out  of  conceit 
with  nearly  every  author  that  comes  in  their  way.  The  first  are 
frequently  actuated  by  personal  friendship,  the  last  by  all  the  vir- 
ulence of  party  spirit.  Under  the  latter  head  would  fall  what  may 
be  termed  political  criticism.  The  basis  of  this  style  of  writing  is  a 
caput  mortuum  of  impotent  spite  and  dulness  till  it  is  varnished 
over  with  the  slime  of  servility,  and  thrown  into  a  state  of  unnatural 
activity  by  the  venom  of  the  most  rancorous  bigotry.  The  eminent 
professors  in  this  grovelling  department  are  at  first  merely  out  of 
sorts  with  themselves,  and  vent  their  spleen  in  little  interjections 
and  contortions  of  phrase,  cry  Pish  at  a  lucky  hit  and  Hem  at  a 
fault,  are  smart  on  personal  defects,  and  sneer  at  "  Beauty  out  of 
favour  and  on  crutches,"  are  thrown  into  an  ague  fit  by  hearing  the 
name  of  a  rival,  start  back  with  horror  at  any  approach  to  their 
morbid  pretensions  like  Justice  Woodcock  with  his  gouty  limbs, 
rifle  the  flowers  of  the  Delia  Cruscan  School,  and  give  you  in  their 
stead,  as  models  of  pleasing  pastoral  style,  Verses  upon  Anna  — 
which  you  may  see  in  the  notes  to  the  Baviad  and  Mceviad.  All 

1  Hazlitt  here  digresses  to  art-criticism,  of  which  he  was  himself  no  mean 
practitioner. 


ON  CRITICISM   [IN   GENERAL]  371 

this  is  like  the  fable  of  the  Kitten  and  the  Leaves.  But  when 
they  get  their  brass  collar  on  and  shake  their  bells  of  office,  they 
set  up  their  backs  like  the  Great  Cat  Eodilardus  and  pounce  upon 
men  and  things.  Woe  to  any  little  heedless  reptile  of  an  author 
that  ventures  across  their  path  without  a  safe-conduct  from  the 
Board  of  Control.  They  snap  him  up  at  a  mouthful,  and  sit  licking 
their  lips,  stroking  their  whiskers,  and  rattling  their  bells  over  the 
imaginary  fragments  of  their  devoted  prey,  to  the  alarm  and  aston- 
ishment of  the  whole  breed  of  literary,  philosophical,  and  revolu- 
tionary vermin,  that  were  naturalized  in  this  country  by  a  Prince  of 
Orange  and  an  Elector  of  Hanover  a  hundred  years  ago.*  When  one 
of  these  pampered,  sleek,  "  demure-looking,  spring-nailed,  velvet- 
pawed,  green-eyed  "  critics  makes  his  King  and  Country  parties  to 
this  sort  of  sport  literary,  you  have  not  much  chance  of  escaping 
out  of  his  clutches  in  a  whole  skin.  Treachery  becomes  a  principle 
with  them,  and  mischief  a  conscience,  that  is,  a  livelihood.  They 
not  only  damn  the  work  in  the  lump,  but  vilify  and  traduce  the 
author,  and  substitute  lying  abuse  and  sheer  malignity  for  sense 
and  satire.  To  have  written  a  popular  work  is  as  much  as  a  man's 
character  is  worth,  and  sometimes  his  life,  if  he  does  not  happen  to 
be  on  the  right  side  of  the  question.  The  way  in  which  they  set 
about  stultifying  an  adversary  is  not  to  accuse  you  of  faults,  or  to 
exaggerate  those  which  you  may  really  have,  but  they  deny  that  you 
have  any  merits  at  all,  least  of  all  those  that  the  world  have  given 
you  credit  for  ;  bless  themselves  from  understanding  a  single  sent- 
ence in  a  whole  volume  ;  and  unless  you  are  ready  to  subscribe  to 
all  their  articles  of  peace  will  not  allow  you  to  be  qualified  to  write 
your  own  name.  It  is  not  a  question  of  literary  discussion  but  of 
political  proscription.  It  is  a  mark  of  loyalty  and  patriotism  to 
extend  no  quarter  to  those  of  the  opposite  party.  Instead  of  reply- 
ing to  your  arguments,  they  call  you  names,  put  words  and  opinions 
into  your  mouth  which  you  have  never  uttered,  and  consider  it  a 
species  of  misprision  of  treason  to  admit  that  a  Whig  author  knows 
anything  of  common-sense  or  English.  The  only  chance  of  putting 
a  stop  to  this  unfair  mode  of  dealing  would  perhaps  be  to  make  a 

*  The  intelligent  reader  will  be  pleased  to  understand  that  there  is  here  a  tacit 
allusion  to  Squire  Western's  significant  phrase  of  Hanover  Eats. 


372  HAZLITT 

few  reprisals  by  way  of  example.  The  Court  party  boast  some  writ- 
ers who  have  a  reputation  to  lose,  and  who  would  not  like  to  have 
their  names  dragged  through  the  kennel  of  dirty  abuse  and  vulgar 
obloquy.  What  silenced  the  masked  battery  of  Blackwood's  Maga- 
zine was  the  implication  of  the  name  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  in  some 
remarks  upon  it  —  an  honour  of  which  it  seems  that  extraordin- 
ary person  was  not  ambitious  :  to  be  "  pilloried  on  infamy's  high 
stage  "  was  a  distinction  and  an  amusement  to  the  other  gent- 
lemen concerned  in  that  praiseworthy  publication.  I  was  com- 
plaining not  long  ago  of  this  prostitution  of  literary  criticism 
as  peculiar  to  our  own  times,  when  I  was  told  that  it  was  just  as 
bad  in  the  time  of  Pope  and  Dryden,  and  indeed  worse,  inasmuch 
as  we  have  no  Popes  or  Drydens  now  on  the  obnoxious  side  to 
be  nicknamed,  metamorphosed  into  scarecrows,  and  impaled  alive 
by  bigots  and  dunces.  I  shall  not  pretend  to  say  how  far  this 
remark  may  be  true.  The  English  (it  must  be  owned)  are  rather 
a  foul-mouthed  nation. 

Besides  temporary  or  accidental  biases  of  this  kind,  there  seem  to 
be  sects  and  parties  in  taste  and  criticism  (with  a  set  of  appropriate 
watchwords)  coeval  with  the  arts  of  composition,  and  that  will  last 
as  long  as  the  difference  with  which  men's  minds  are  originally 
constituted.  There  are  some  who  are  all  for  the  elegance  of  an 
author's  style,  and  some  who  are  equally  delighted  with  simplicity. 
The  last  refer  you  to  Swift  as  a  model  of  English  prose,  thinking 
all  other  writers  sophisticated  and  naught ;  the  former  prefer  the 
more  ornamented  and  sparkling  periods  of  Junius  or  Gibbon.  It  is 
to  no  purpose  to  think  of  bringing  about  an  understanding  between 
these  opposite  factions.  It  is  a  natural  difference  of  temperament 
and  constitution  of  mind.  The  one  will  never  relish  the  antithetical 
point  and  perpetual  glitter  of  the  artificial  prose  style ;  as  the  plain 
unperverted  English  idiom  will  always  appear  trite  and  insipid  to 
the  others.  A  toleration,  not  a  uniformity  of  opinion,  is  as  much 
as  can  be  expected  in-  this  case ;  and  both  sides  may  acknowledge, 
without  imputation  on  their  taste  or  consistency,  that  these  differ- 
ent writers  excelled  each  in  their  way.  I  might  remark  here 
that  the  epithet  elegant  is  very  sparingly  used  in  modern  criticism. 
It  has  probably  gone  out  of  fashion  with  the  appearance  of  the  Lake 


ON  CRITICISM  [IN  GENERAL]  373 

School,  who,  I  apprehend,  have  no  such  phrase  in  their  vocabulary. 
Mr.  Kogers  was,  I  think,  almost  the  last  poet  to  whom  it  was  applied 
as  a  characteristic  compliment.  At  present  it  would  be  considered 
as  a  sort  of  diminutive  of  the  title  of  poet,  like  the  terms  pretty  or 
fanciful,  and  is  banished  from  the  haut  ton  of  letters.  It  may  per- 
haps come  into  request  at  some  future  period.  Again,  the  dispute 
between  the  admirers  of  Homer  and  Virgil  has  never  been  settled, 
and  never  will :  for  there  will  always  be  minds  to  whom  the  excell- 
ences of  Virgil  will  be  more  congenial,  and  therefore  more  objects 
of  admiration,  than  those  of  Homer,  and  vice  versa.  •  Both  are  right 
in  preferring  what  suits  them  best  —  the  delicacy  and  selectness  of 
the  one,  or  the  fulness  and  majestic  flow  of  the  other,  f  There  is  the 
same  difference  in  their  tastes  that  there  was  in  the  genius  of  their 
two  favourites.  Neither  can  the  disagreement  between  the  French 
and  English  school  of  tragedy  ever  be  reconciled  till  the  French 
become  English,  or  the  English  French.*  Both  are  right  in  what 
they  admire  ;  both  are  wrong  in  condemning  the  others  for  what 
they  admire.  We  see  the  defects  of  Eacine  ;  they  see  the  faults  of 
Shakespeare  probably  in  an  exaggerated  point  of  view.  But  we 
may  be  sure  of  this,  that  when  we  see  nothing  but  grossness  and 
barbarism,  or  insipidity  and  verbiage,  in  a  writer  that  is  the  God  of 
a  nation's  idolatry,  it  is  we  and  not  they  who  want  true  taste  and 
feeling.  The  controversy  about  Pope  and  the  opposite  school  in 
our  own  poetry  comes  to  much  the  same  thing.  Pope's  correctness, 
smoothness,  etc.,  are  very  good  things  and  much  to  be  commended 
in  him.  But  it  is  not  to  be  expected,  or  even  desired,  that  others 
should  have  these  qualities  in  the  same  paramount  degree,  to  the 
exclusion  of  everything  else.  If  you  like  correctness  and  smooth- 
ness of  all  things  in  the  world,  there  they  are  for  you  in  Pope.  If 
you  like  other  things  better,  such  as  strength  and  sublimity,  you 
know  where  to  go  for  them.  Why  trouble  Pope  or  any  other 
author  for  what  they  have  not,  and  do  not  profess  to  give  ?  Those 
who  seem  to  imply  that  Pope  possessed,  besides  his  own  peculiar 
exquisite  merits,  all  that  is  to  be  found  in  Shakespeare  or  Milton, 
are,  I  should  hardly  think,  in  good  earnest.  But  I  do  not  therefore 

*  Of  the  two  the  latter  alternative  is  more  likely  to  happen.     We  abuse  and 
imitate  them.     They  laugh  at  but  do  not  imitate  us. 


374  HAZLITT 

\ 

see  that,  because  this  was  not  the  case,  Pope  was  no  poet.  We 
cannot  by  a  little  verbal  sophistry  confound  the  qualities  of  differ- 
ent minds,  nor  force  opposite  excellences  into  a  union  by  all  the 
intolerance  in  the  world.  We  may  pull  Pope  in  pieces  as  long  as 
we  please  for  not  being  Shakespeare  or  Milton,  as  we  may  carp  at 
them  for  not  being  Pope  ;  but  this  will  not  make  a  poet  equal  to  all 
three.  If  we  have  a  taste  for  some  one  precise  style  or  manner,  we 
may  keep  it  to  ourselves  and  let  others  have  theirs.  If  we  are 
more  catholic  in  our  notions  and  want  variety  of  excellence  and 
beauty,  it  is  spread  abroad  for  us  to  profusion  in  the  variety  of 
books  and  in  the  several  growth  of  men's  minds,  fettered  by  no 
capricious  or  arbitrary  rules.  Those  who  would  proscribe  whatever 
falls  short  of  a  given  standard  of  imaginary  perfection  do  so  not 
from  a  higher  capacity  of  taste  or  range  of  intellect  than  others, 
but  to  destroy,  to  "  crib  and  cabin  in  "  all  enjoyments  and  opinions 
but  their  own. 

We  find  people  of  a  decided  and  original,  and  others  of  a  more 
general  and  versatile,  taste.  I  have  sometimes  thought  that  the 
most  acute  and  original-minded  men  made  bad  critics.  They  see 
everything  too  much  through  a  particular  medium.  What  does  not 
fall  in  with  their  own  bias  and  mode  of  composition  strikes  them  as 
commonplace  and  factitious.  What  does  not  come  into  the  direct 
line  of  their  vision  they  regard  idly,  with  vacant,  "  lack-lustre  eye." 
The  extreme  force  of  their  original  impressions  compared  with  the 
feebleness  of  those  they  receive  at  second  hand  from  others,  over- 
sets the  balance  and  just  proportion  of  their  minds.  Men  who  have 
fewer  native  resources,  and  are  obliged  to  apply  oftener  to  the 
general  stock,  acquire  by  habit  a  greater  aptitude  in  appreciating 
what  they  owe  to  others.  Their  taste  is  not  made  a  sacrifice  to 
their  egotism  and  vanity,  and  they  enrich  the  soil  of  their  minds 
with  continual  accessions  of  borrowed  strength  and  beauty.  I 
might  take  this  opportunity  of  observing  that  the  person  of  the 
most  refined  and  least  contracted  taste  I  ever  knew  was  the  late 
Joseph  Fawcett,  the  friend  of  my  youth.  He  was  almost  the  first 
literary  acquaintance  I  ever  made,  and  I  think  the  most  candid  and 
unsophisticated.  He  had  a  masterly  perception  of  all  style  and  of 
every  kind  and  degree  of  excellence,  sublime  or  beautiful,  from 


ON   CRITICISM   [IN   GENERAL]  375 

Milton's  Paradise  Lost  to  Shenstone's  Pastoral  Ballad,  from  Butler's 
Analogy  down  to  Humphrey  Clinker.  If  you  had  a  favourite 
author,  he  had  read  him  too,  and  knew  all  the  best  morsels,  the 
subtle  traits,  the  capital  touches.  "  Da  you  like  Sterne  ?  "  "  Yes, 
to  be  sure,"  he  would  say ;  "  I  should  deserve  to  be  hanged  if  I 
did  n't !  "  His  repeating  some  parts  of  Comus  with  his  fine,  deep, 
mellow-toned  voice,  particularly  the  lines,  "I  have  oft  heard  my 
mother  Circe  with  the  Sirens  three,"  etc.,  and  the  enthusiastic 
comments  he  made  afterwards,  were  a  feast  to  the  ear  and  to  the 
soul.  He  read  the  poetry  of  Milton  with  the  same  fervour  and 
spirit  of  devotion  that  I  have  since  heard  others  read  their  own. 
"That  is  the  most  delicious  feeling  of  all,"  I  have  heard  him 
exclaim,  "to  like  what  is  excellent,  no  matter  whose  it  is."  In 
this  respect  he  practised  what  he  preached.  He  was  incapable  of 
harbouring  a  sinister  motive,  and  judged  only  from  what  he  felt. 
There  was  no  flow  nor  mist  in  the  clear  mirror  of  his  mind.  He 
was  as  open  to  impressions  as  he  was  strenuous  in  maintaining 
them.  He  did  not  care  a  rush  whether  a  writer  was  old  or  new,  in 
prose  or  in  verse.  "  What  he  wanted,"  he  said,  "  was  something  to 
make  him  think."  Most  men's  minds  are  to  me  like  musical  instru- 
ments out  of  tune.  Touch  a  particular  key,  and  it  jars  and  makes 
harsh  discord  with  your  own.  They  like  Gil  Bias,  but  can  see 
nothing  to  laugh  at  in  Don  Quixote:  they  adore  Richardson,  but 
are  disgusted  with  Fielding.  Fawcett  had  a  taste  accommodated 
to  all  these.  He  was  not  exceptious.  He  gave  a  cordial  welcome 
to  all  sorts,  provided  they  were  the  best  in  their  kind.  He  was 
not  fond  of  counterfeits  or  duplicates.  His  own  style  was  laboured 
and  artificial  to  a  fault,  while  his  character  was  frank  and  ingenu- 
ous in  the  extreme.  He  was  not  the  only  individual  whom  I  have 
known  to  counteract  their  natural  disposition  in  coming  before  the 
public,  and,  by  avoiding  what  they  perhaps  thought  an  inherent 
infirmity,  debar  themselves  of  their  real  strength  and  advantages. 
A  heartier  friend  or  honester  critic  I  never  coped  withal.  He  has 
made  me  feel  (by  contrast)  the  want  of  genuine  sincerity  and  gen- 
erous sentiment  in  some  that  I  have  listened  to  since,  and  convinced 
me  (if  practical  proof  were  wanting)  of  the  truth  of  that  text  of 
Scripture  —  "  That  had  I  all  knowledge  and  could  speak  with  the 


376  HAZLITT 

tongues  of  angels,  yet  without  charity  I  were  nothing ! "  I  would 
rather  be  a  man  of  disinterested  taste  and  liberal  feeling,  to  see 
and  acknowledge  truth  and  beauty  wherever  I  found  it,  than  a 
man  of  greater  and  more  original  genius,  to  hate,  envy,  and  deny 
all  excellence  but  my  own  —  but  that  poor  scanty  pittance  of  it 
(compared  with  the  whole)  which  I  had  myself  produced  ! 

There  is  another  race  of  critics  who  might  be  designated  as  the 
Occult  School  —  vere  adepti.  They  discern  no  beauties  but  what 
are  concealed  from  superficial  eyes,  and  overlook  all  that  are  obvi- 
ous to  the  vulgar  part  of  mankind.  Their  art  is  the  transmutation 
of  styles.  By  happy  alchemy  of  mind  they  convert  dross  into  gold 
—  and  gold  into  tinsel.  They  see  farther  into  a  millstone  than 
most  others.  If  an  author  is  utterly  unreadable,  they  can  read 
him  for  ever;  his  intricacies  are  their  delight,  his  mysteries  are 
their  study.  They  prefer  Sir  Thomas  Browne  to  the  Rambler  by 
Dr.  Johnson,  and  Burton's  Anatomy  of  Melancholy  to  all  the  writers 
of  the  Georgian  Age.  They  judge  of  works  of  genius  as  misers  do 
of  hid  treasure  —  it  is  of  no  value  unless  they  have  it  all  to  them- 
selves. They  will  no  more  share  a  book  than  a  mistress  with  a 
friend.  If  they  suspected  their  favourite  volumes  of  delighting 
any  eyes  but  their  own,  they  would  immediately  discard  them  from 
the  list.  Theirs  are  superannuated  beauties  that  every  one  else  has 
left  off  intriguing  with,  bedridden  hags,  a  "  stud  of  nightmares." 
This  is  not  envy  or  affectation,  but  a  natural  proneness  to  singul- 
arity, a  love  of  what  is  odd  and  out  of  the  way.  They  must  come 
at  their  pleasures  with  difficulty,  and  support  admiration  by  an 
uneasy  sense  of  ridicule  and  opposition.  They  despise  those  qual- 
ities in  a  work  which  are  cheap  and  obvious.  They  like  a  monopoly 
of  taste,  and  are  shocked  at  the  prostitution  of  intellect  implied  in 
popular  productions.  In  like  manner  they  would  choose  a  friend 
or  recommend  a  mistress  for  gross  defects,  and  tolerate  the  sweet- 
ness of  an  actress's  voice  only  for  the  ugliness  of  her  face.  Pure 
pleasures  are  in  their  judgment  cloying  and  insipid  — 

An  ounce  of  sour  is  worth  a  pound  of  sweet! 

Nothing  goes  down  with  them  but  what  is  caviare  to  the  multitude. 
They  are  eaters  of  olives  and  readers  of  black-letter.  Yet  they 


ON  POETRY  IN  GENERAL  377 

smack  of  genius,  and  would  be  worth  any  money  were  it  only  for 
the  rarity  of  the  thing ! 

The  last  sort  I  shall  mention  are  verbal  critics  —  mere  word- 
catchers,  fellows  that  pick  out  a  word  in  a  sentence  and  a  sentence 
in  a  volume  and  tell  you  it  is  wrong.*  These  erudite  persons  con- 
stantly find  out  by  anticipation  that  you  are  deficient  in  the  smallest 
things  —  that  you  cannot  spell  certain  words  or  join  the  nominative 
case  and  the  verb  together,  because  to  do  this  is  the  height  of  their 
own  ambition,  and  of  course  they  must  set  you  down  lower  than 
their  opinion  of  themselves.  They  degrade  by  reducing  you  to 
their  own  standard  of  merit ;  for  the  qualifications  they  deny  you, 
or  the  faults  they  object,  are  so  very  insignificant,  that  to  prove 
yourself  possessed  of  the  one  or  free  from  the  other  is  to  make 
yourself  doubly  ridiculous.  Littleness  is  their  element,  and  they 
give  a  character  of  meanness  to  whatever  they  touch.  They  creep, 
buzz,  and  fly-blow.  It  is  much  easier  to  crush  than  to  catch  these 
troublesome  insects ;  and  when  they  are  in  your  power  your  self- 
respect  spares  them.  The  race  is  almost  extinct ;  one  or  two  of 
them  are  sometimes  seen  crawling  over  the  pages  of  the  Quarterly 

From  Table  Talk. 


ON    POETRY   IN    GENERAL 

The  best  general  notion  which  I  can  give  of  poetry  is  that  it  is 
the  natural  impression  of  any  object  or  event,  by  its  vividness 
exciting  an  involuntary  movement  of  imagination  and  passion,  and 
producing,  by  sympathy,  a  certain  modulation  of  the  voice  or  sounds 
expressing  it. 

In  treating  of  poetry,  I  shall  speak  first  of  the  subject-matter  of 
it,  next  of  the  forms  of  expression  to  which  it  gives  birth,  and 
afterwards  of  its  connection  with  harmony  of  sound. 

Poetry  is  the  language  of  the  imagination  and  the  passions.  It 
relates  to  whatever  gives  immediate  pleasure  or  pain  to  the  human 
mind.  It  comes  home  to  the  bosoms  and  businesses  of  men ;  for 

*  The  title  of  Ultra-Crepidarian  critics  has  been  given  to  a  variety  of  this 
species. 


378  HAZLITT 

nothing  but  what  so  comes  home  to  them  in  the  most  general 
and  intelligible  shape  can  be  a  subject  for  poetry.  Poetry  is  the 
universal  language  which  the  heart  holds  with  nature  and  itself. 
He  who  has  a  contempt  for  poetry  cannot  have  much  respect  for 
himself  or  for  anything  else.  It  is  not  a  mere  frivolous  accom- 
plishment (as  some  persons  have  been  led  to  imagine),  the  trifling 
amusement  of  a  few  idle  readers  or  leisure  hours  —  it  has  been  the 
study  and  delight  of  mankind  in  all  ages.  Many  people  suppose 
that  poetry  is  something  to  be  found  only  in  books,  contained  in 
lines  of  ten  syllables  with  like  endings ;  but  wherever  there  is  a 
sense  of  beauty,  or  power,  or  harmony,  as  in  the  motion  of  a  wave 
of  the  sea,  in  the  growth  of  a  flower  that  "  spreads  its  sweet  leaves 
to  the  air  and  dedicates  its  beauty  to  the  sun,"  —  there  is  poetry  in 
its  birth.  If  history  is  a  grave  study,  poetry  may  be  said  to  be  a 
graver :  its  materials  lie  deeper  and  are  spread  wider.  History 
treats,  for  the  most  part,  of  the  cumbrous  and  unwieldy  masses  of 
things,  the  empty  cases  in  which  the  affairs  of  the  world  are  packed, 
under  the  heads  of  intrigue  or  war,  in  different  states,  and  from 
century  to  century ;  but  there  is  no  thought  or  feeling  that  can 
have  entered  into  the  mind  of  man  which  he  would  be  eager  to 
communicate  to  others,  or  which  they  would  listen  to  with  delight, 
that  is  not  a  fit  subject  for  poetry.  It  is  not  a  branch  of  author- 
ship; it  is  "the  stuff  of  which  our  life  is  made."  The  rest  is 
"  mere  oblivion,"  a  dead  letter ;  for  all  that  is  worth  remembering 
in  life  is  the  poetry  of  it.  Fear  is  poetry,  hope  is  poetry,  love  is 
poetry,  hatred  is  poetry ;  contempt,  jealousy,  remorse,  admiration, 
wonder,  pity,  despair,  or  madness,  are  all  poetry.  Poetry  is  that 
fine  particle  within  us  that  expands,  rarefies,  refines,  raises  our 
whole  being :  without  it  "  man's  life  is  poor  as  beast's."  Man  is 
a  poetical  animal ;  and  those  of  us  who  do  not  study  the  principles 
of  poetry  act  upon  them  all  our  lives  like  Moliere's  Bourgeois 
Gentilhomme,  who  had  always  spoken  prose  without  knowing  it. 
The  child  is  a  poet,  in  fact,  when  he  first  plays  at  hide-and-seek, 
or  repeats  the  story  of  Jack  the  Giant-killer;  the  shepherd  boy  is  a 
poet  when  he  first  crowns  his  mistress  with  a  garland  of  flowers ;  the 
countryman,  when  he  stops  to  look  at  the  rainbow ;  the  city  apprent- 
ice, when  he  gazes  after  the  Lord  Mayor's  show ;  the  miser,  when 


ON  POETRY  IN  GENERAL  379 

he  hugs  his  gold ;  the  courtier,  who  builds  his  hopes  upon  a  smile ; 
the  savage,  who  paints  his  idol  with  blood  ;  the  slave,  who  worships 
a  tyrant,  or  the  tyrant,  who  fancies  himself  a  god ;  the  vain,  the 
ambitious,  the  proud,  the  choleric  man,  the  hero  and  the  coward, 
the  beggar  and  the  king,  the  rich  and  the  poor,  the  young  and  the 
old,  all  live  in  a  world  of  their  own  making;  and  the  poet  does 
no  more  than  describe  what  all  the  others  think  and  act.  If  his 
art  is  folly  and  madness,  it  is  folly  and  madness  at  second  hand. 
"  There  is  warrant  for  it."  Poets  alone  have  not  "  such  seething 
brains,  such  shaping  fantasies,  that  apprehend  more  than  cool 
reason"  can. 

The  lunatic,  the  lover,  and  the  poet,  etc. 

If  poetry  is  a  dream,  the  business  of  life  is  much  the  same.  If  it 
is  a  fiction,  made  up  of  what  we  wish  things  to  be,  and  fancy  that 
they  are  because  we  wish  them  so,  there  is  no  other  nor  better 
reality.  Ariosto  has  described  the  loves  of  Angelica  and  Medoro ; 
but  was  not  Medoro,  who  carved  the  name  of  his  mistress  on  the 
barks  of  trees,  as  much  enamoured  of  her  charms  as  he  ?  Homer 
has  celebrated  the  anger  of  Achilles ;  but  was  not  the  hero  as  mad 
as  the  poet?  Plato  banished  the  poets  from  his  Commonwealth 
lest  their  descriptions  of  the  natural  man  should  spoil  his  mathe- 
matical man,  who  was  to  be  without  passions  and  affections,  who 
was  neither  to  laugh  nor  weep,  to  feel  sorrow  nor  anger,  to  be  cast 
down  nor  elated  by  anything.  This  was  a  chimera,  however,  which 
never  existed  but  in  the  brain  of  the  inventor ;  and  Homer's  poetical 
world  has  outlived  Plato's  philosophical  Republic. 

Poetry,  then,  is  an  imitation  of  nature,  but  the  imagination  and 
the  passions  are  a  part  of  man's  nature.  We  shape  things  accord- 
ing to  our  wishes  and  fancies  without  poetry ;  but  poetry  is  the 
most  emphatical  language  that  can  be  found  for  those  creations  of 
the  mind  which  "  ecstasy  is  very  cunning  in."  Neither  a  mere 
description  of  natural  objects  nor  a  mere  delineation  of  natural 
feelings,  however  distinct  or  forcible,  constitutes  the  ultimate  end 
and  aim  of  poetry  without  the  heightenings  of  the  imagination. 
The  light  of  poetry  is  not  only  a  direct  but  also  a  reflected  light, 
that,  while  it  shows  us  the  object,  throws  a  sparkling  radiance  on 


380  HAZLITT 

all  around  it :  the  flame  of  the  passions,  communicated  to  the  imagin- 
ation, reveals  to  us  as  with  a  flash  of  lightning  the  inmost  recesses 
of  thought,  and  penetrates  our  whole  being.  Poetry  represents  forms 
chiefly  as  they  suggest  other  forms  ;  feelings,  as  they  suggest  forms 
or  other  feelings.  Poetry  puts  a  spirit  of  life  and  motion  into  the 
universe.  It  describes  the  flowing,  not  the  fixed.  It  does  not  define 
the  limits  of  sense  nor  analyse  the  distinctions  of  the  understand- 
ing, but  signifies  the  excess  of  the  imagination  beyond  the  actual  or 
ordinary  impression  of  any  object  or  feeling.  The  poetical  impres- 
sion of  any  object  is  that  uneasy,  exquisite  sense  of  beauty  or  power 
that  cannot  be  contained  within  itself;  that  is  impatient  of  all 
limit ;  that  (as  flame  bends  to  flame)  strives  to  link  itself  to  some 
other  image  of  kindred  beauty  or  grandeur,  to  enshrine  itself,  as  it 
were,  in  the  highest  forms  of  fancy,  and  to  relieve  the  aching  sense 
of  pleasure  by  expressing  it  in  the  boldest  manner,  and  by  the  most 
striking  examples  of  the  same  quality  in  other  instances.  Poetry, 
according  to  Lord  Bacon,  for  this  reason,  "  has  something  divine  in 
it,  because  it  raises  the  mind  and  hurries  it  into  sublimity  by  con- 
forming the  shows  of  things  to  the  desires  of  the  soul,  instead  of 
subjecting  the  soul  to  external  things  as  reason  and  history  do." 
It  is  strictly  the  language  of  the  imagination ;  and  the  imagination 
is  that  faculty  which  represents  objects,  not  as  they  are  in  them- 
selves, but  as  they  are  moulded,  by  other  thoughts  and  feelings, 
into  an  infinite  variety  of  shapes  and  combinations  of  power.  This 
language  is  not  the  less  true  to  nature  because  it  is  false  in  point 
of  fact ;  but  so  much  the  more  true  and  natural  if  it  conveys  the 
impression  which  the  object  under  the  influence  of  passion  makes 
on  the  mind.  Let  an  object,  for  instance,  be  presented  to  the  senses 
in  a  state  of  agitation  or  fear,  and  the  imagination  will  distort  or 
magnify  the  object,  and  convert  it  into  the  likeness  of  whatever 
is  most  proper  to  encourage  the  fear.  "Our  eyes  are  made  the 
fools  "  of  our  other  faculties.  This  is  the  universal  law  of  the 
imagination  — 

That  if  it  would  but  apprehend  some  joy, 
It  comprehends  some  bringer  of  that  joy : 
Or  in  the  night,  imagining  some  fear, 
How  easy  is  a  bush  supposed  a  bearJ 


ON  POETRY  IN  GENERAL  381 

When  lachimo  says  of  Imogen  — 

The  flame  o1  the  taper 

Bows  toward  her,  and  would  under-peep  her  lids 
To  see  the  enclosed  lights  — 

this  passionate  interpretation  of  the  motion  of  the  flame  to  accord 
with  the  speaker's  own  feelings  is  true  poetry.  The  lover,  equally 
with  the  poet,  speaks  of  the  auburn  tresses  of  his  mistress  as  locks 
of  shining  gold,  because  the  least  tinge  of  yellow  in  the  hair  has, 
from  novelty  and  a  sense  of  personal  beauty,  a  more  lustrous  effect 
to  the  imagination  than  the  purest  gold.  We  compare  a  man  of 
gigantic  stature  to  a  tower ;  not  that  he  is  anything  like  so  large, 
but  because  the  excess  of  his  size  beyond  what  we  are  accustomed 
to  expect,  or  the  usual  size  of  things  of  the  same  class,  produces  by 
contrast  a  greater  feeling  of  magnitude  and  ponderous  strength  than 
another  object  of  ten  times  the  same  dimensions.  The  intensity  of 
the  feeling  makes  up  for  the  disproportion  of  the  objects.  Things 
are  equal  to  the  imagination  which  have  the  power  of  affecting  the 
mind  with  an  equal  degree  of  terror,  admiration^  delight,  or  love. 
When  Lear  calls  upon  the  heavens  to  avenge  his  cause,  "  for  they 
are  old  like  him,"  there  is  nothing  extravagant  or  impious  in  this 
sublime  identification  of  his  age  with  theirs ;  for  there  is  no  other 
image  which  could  do  justice  to  the  agonizing  sense  of  his  wrongs 
and  his  despair ! 

Poetry  is  the  high-wrought  enthusiasm  of  fancy  and  feeling. 
As  in  describing  natural  objects  it  impregnates  sensible  impressions 
with  the  forms  of  fancy,  so  it  describes  the  feelings  of  pleasure  or 
pain  by  blending  them  with  the  strongest  movements  of  passion 
and  the  most  striking  forms  of  nature.  Tragic  poetry,  which  is 
the  most  impassioned  species  of  it,  strives  to  carry  on  the  feeling 
to  the  utmost  point  of  sublimity  or  pathos  by  all  the  force  of  com- 
parison or  contrast ;  loses  the  sense  of  present  suffering  in  the 
imaginary  exaggeration  of  it;  exhausts  the  terror  or  pity  by  an 
unlimited  indulgence  of  it;  grapples  with  impossibilities  in  its 
desperate  impatience  of  restraint ;  throws  us  back  upon  the  past, 
forward  into  the  future;  brings  every  moment  of  our  being  or 
object  of  nature  into  startling  review  before  us ;  and,  in  the  rapid 


382  HAZLITT 

whirl  of  events,  lifts  us  from  the  depths  of  woe  to  the  highest  con- 
templations on  human  life.  When  Lear  says  of  Edgar,  "  Nothing 
but  his  unkind  daughters  could  have  brought  him  to  this,"  what  a 
bewildered  amazement,  what  a  wrench  of  the  imagination,  that  can- 
not be  brought  to  conceive  of  any  other  cause  of  misery  than  that 
which  has  bowed  it  down,  and  absorbs  all  other  sorrow  in  its  own ! 
His  sorrow,  like  a  flood,  supplies  the  sources  of  all  other  sorrow. 
Again,  when  he  exclaims  in  the  mad  scene,  "  The  little  dogs  and 
all,  Tray,  Blanch,  and  Sweetheart,  see,  they  bark  at  me!"  it  is 
passion  lending  occasion  to  imagination  to  make  every  creature  in 
league  against  him,  conjuring  up  ingratitude  and  insult  in  their 
least  looked-for  and  most  galling  shapes,  searching  every  thread 
and  fibre  of  his  heart,  and  finding  out  the  last  remaining  image  of 
respect  or  attachment  in  the  bottom  of  his  breast  only  to  torture 
and  kill  it !  In  like  manner  the  "  So  I  am  "  of  Cordelia  gushes 
from  her  heart  like  a  torrent  of  tears,  relieving  it  of  a  weight  of 
love  and  of  supposed  ingratitude  which  had  pressed  upon  it  for 
years.  What  a  fine  return  of  the  passion  upon  itself  is  that  in 
Othello  —  with  what  a  mingled  agony  of  regret  and  despair  he  clings 
to  the  last  traces  of  departed  happiness — when  he  exclaims — 

Oh,  now,  for  ever 
Farewell  the  tranquil  mind !  etc. 

How  his  passion  lashes  itself  up  and  swells  and  rages  like  a  tide  in 
its  sounding  course,  when,  in  answer  to  the  doubts  expressed  of  his 
returning  love,  he  says  — 

Never,  lago.     Like  to  the  Pontic  sea,  etc. 

The  climax  of  his  expostulation  afterwards  with  Desdemona  is  at 
that  line  — 

But  there,  where  I  have  garner'd  up  my  heart,  .  .  . 
To  be  discarded  thence ! 

One  mode  in  which  the  dramatic  exhibition  of  passion  excites 
our  sympathy  without  raising  our  disgust  is  that,  in  proportion  as 
it  sharpens  the  edge  of  calamity  and  disappointment,  it  strengthens 
the  desire  of  good.  It  enhances  our  consciousness  of  the  blessing 


ON   POETRY  IN    GENERAL  383 

by  making  us  sensible  of  the  magnitude  of  the  loss.  The  storm  of 
passion  lays  bare  and  shows  us  the  rich  depths  of  the  human  soul : 
the  whole  of  our  existence,  the  sum  total  of  our  passions  and  pur- 
suits, of  that  which  we  desire  and  that  which  we  dread,  is  brought 
before  us  by  contrast ;  the  action  and  reaction  are  equal ;  the  keen- 
ness of  immediate  suffering  only  gives  us  a  more  intense  aspiration 
after,  and  a  more  intimate  participation  with,  the  antagonist  world 
of  good ;  makes  us  drink  deeper  of  the  cup  of  human  life ;  tugs  at 
the  heart-strings ;  loosens  the  pressure  about  them ;  and  calls  the 
springs  of  thought  and  feeling  into  play  with  tenfold  force. 

Impassioned  poetry  is  an  emanation  of  the  moral  and  intellectual 
part  of  our  nature  as  well  as  of  the  sensitive  —  of  the  desire  to 
know,  the  will  to  act,  and  the  power  to  feel,  —  and  ought  to  appeal 
to  these  different  parts  of  our  constitution  in  order  to  be  perfect. 
The  domestic  or  prose  tragedy,  which  is  thought  to  be  the  most 
natural,  is  in  this  sense  the  least  so,  because  it  appeals  almost 
exclusively  to  one  of  these  faculties,  our  sensibility.  The  tragedies 
of  Moore  and  Lillo,  for  this  reason,  however  affecting  at  the  time, 
oppress  and  lie  like  a  dead  weight  upon  the  mind,  a  load  of  misery 
which  it  is  unable  to  throw  off :  the  tragedy  of  Shakespeare,  which 
is  true  poetry,  stirs  our  inmost  affection,  abstracts  evil  from  itself 
by  combining  it  with  all  the  forms  of  imagination  and  with  the 
deepest  workings  of  the  heart,  and  rouses  the  whole  man  within  us. 

The  pleasure,  however,  derived  from  tragic  poetry  is  not  anything 
peculiar  to  it  as  poetry,  as  a  fictitious  and  fanciful  thing.  It  is  not 
an  anomaly  of  the  imagination.  It  has  its  source  and  groundwork 
in  the  common  love  of  strong  excitement.1 

Poetry  is  only  the  highest  eloquence  of  passion,  the  most  vivid 
form  of  expression  that  can  be  given  to  our  conception  of  anything, 
whether  pleasurable  or  painful,  mean  or  dignified,  delightful  or 
distressing. 

Poetry  is,  in  all  its  shapes,  the  language  of  the  imagination  and 
the  passions  of  fancy  and  will.  Nothing,  therefore,  can  be  more 

1  Hazlitt  divagates  somewhat  on  this  point.  The  most  important  passage  in 
the  divagation  is  given  above. 


384  HAZLITT 

absurd  than  the  outcry,  which  has  been  sometimes  raised  by  frigid 
and  pedantic  critics,  for  reducing  the  language  of  poetry  to  the 
standard  of  common-sense  and  reason ;  for  the  end  and  use  of 
poetry,  both  at  the  first  and  now,  was  and  is  "to  hold  the  mirror 
up  to  nature,"  seen  through  the  medium  of  passion  and  imagination, 
not  divested  of  that  medium  by  means  of  literal  truth  or  abstract 
reason.  The  painter  of  history  might  as  well  be  required  to 
represent  the  face  of  a  person  who  has  just  trod  upon  a  serpent 
with  the  still-life  expression  of  a  common  portrait,  as  the  poet  to 
describe  the  most  striking  and  vivid  impressions  which  things  can 
be  supposed  to  make  upon  the  mind  in  the  language  of  common 
conversation.  Let  who  will  strip  nature  of  the  colours  and  the 
shapes  of  fancy,  the  poet  is  not  bound  to  do  so ;  the  impressions 
of  common-sense  and  strong  imagination  —  that  is,  of  passion  and 
indifference  —  cannot  be  the  same,  and  they  must  have  a  separate 
language  to  do  justice  to  either.  Objects  must  strike  differently 
upon  the  mind,  independently  of  what  they  are  in  themselves,  as 
long  as  we  have  a  different  interest  in  them,  as  we  see  them  in  a 
different  point  of  view,  nearer  or  at  a  greater  distance  (morally 
or  physically  speaking)  from  novelty,  from  old  acquaintance,  from 
our  ignorance  of  them,  from  our  fear  of  their  consequences,  from 
contrast,  from  unexpected  likeness.  We  can  no  more  take  away 
the  faculty  of  the  imagination  than  we  can  see  all  objects  without 
light  or  shade.  Some  things  must  dazzle  us  by  their  preternatural 
light ;  others  must  hold  us  in  suspense,  and  tempt  our  curiosity  to 
explore  their  obscurity.  Those  who  would  dispel  these  various 
illusions  to  give  us  their  drab-coloured  creation  in  their  stead  are 
not  very  wise.  Let  the  naturalist,  if  he  will,  catch  the  glow-worm, 
carry  it  home  with  him  in  a  box,  and  find  it  next  morning  nothing 
but  a  little  grey  worm ;  let  the  poet  or  the  lover  of  poetry  visit  it 
at  evening,  when  beneath  the  scented  hawthorn  and  the  crescent 
moon  it  has  built  itself  a  palace  of  emerald  light.  This  is  also  one 
part  of  nature,  one  appearance  which  the  glow-worm  presents,  and 
that  not  the  least  interesting ;  so  poetry  is  one  part  of  the  history 
of  the  human  mind,  though  it  is  neither  science  nor  philosophy. 
It  cannot  be  concealed,  however,  that  the  progress  of  knowledge 
and  refinement  has  a  tendency  to  circumscribe  the  limits  of  the 


ON   POETRY  IN  GENERAL  385 

imagination,  and  to  clip  the  wings  of  poetry.  The  province  of 
the  imagination  is  principally  visionary,  the  unknown  and  unde- 
fined :  the  understanding  restores  things  to  their  natural  boundaries 
and  strips  them  of  their  fanciful  pretensions.  Hence  the  history  of 
religious  and  poetical  enthusiasm  is  much  the  same ;  and  both  have 
received  a  sensible  shock  from  the  progress  of  experimental  philo- 
sophy. It  is  the  undefined  and  uncommon  that  gives  birth  and 
scope  to  the  imagination ;  we  can  only  fancy  what  we  do  not  know. 
As  in  looking  into  the  mazes  of  a  tangled  wood  we  fill  them  with 
what  shapes  we  please — with  ravenous  beasts,  with  caverns  vast, 
and  drear  enchantments  —  so  in  our  ignorance  of  the  world  about 
us  we  make  gods  or  devils  of  the  first  objects  we  see,  and  set  no 
bounds  to  the  wilful  suggestions  of  our  hopes  and  fears. 

And  visions,  as  poetic  eyes  avow, 

Hang  on  each  leaf,  and  cling  to  every  bough. 

There  can  never  be  another  Jacob's  Dream.  Since  that  time  the 
heavens  have  gone  farther  off  and  grown  astronomical.  They  have 
become  averse  to  the  imagination ;  nor  will  they  return  to  us  on 
the  squares  of  the  distances,  or  on  Doctor  Chalmers's  Discourses. 
Rembrandt's  picture  brings  the  matter  nearer  to  us.  It  is  not  only 
the  progress  of  mechanical  knowledge,  but  the  necessary  advances 
of  civilization,  that  are  unfavourable  to  the  spirit  of  poetry.  We 
not  only  stand  in  less  awe  of  the  preternatural  world,  but  we  can 
calculate  more  surely  and  look  with  more  indifference  upon  the 
regular  routine  of  this.  The  heroes  of  the  fabulous  ages  rid  the 
world  of  monsters  and  giants.  At  present  we  are  less  exposed  to 
the  vicissitudes  of  good  or  evil,  to  the  incursions  of  wild  beasts  or 
"  bandit  fierce,"  or  to  the  unmitigated  fury  of  the  elements.  The 
time  has  been  that  "  our  fell  of  hair  would  at  a  dismal  treatise 
rouse  and  stir  as  life  were  in  it."  But  the  police  spoils  all ;  and 
we  now  hardly  so  much  as  dream  of  a  midnight  murder.  Macbeth 
is  only  tolerated  in  this  country  for  the  sake  of  the  music ;  and 
in  the  United  States  of  America,  where  the  philosophical  principles 
of  government  are  carried  still  further  in  theory  and  practice,  we 
find  that  the  Beggar's  Opera  is  hooted  from  the  stage.  Society, 
by  degrees,  is  constructed  into  a  machine  that  carries  us  safely  and 


386  HAZLITT 

insipidly  from  one  end  of  life  to  the  other  in  a  very  comfortable 
prose  style. 

Obscurity  her  curtain  round  them  drew, 

And  siren  Sloth  a  dull  quietus  sung.1 

Poetry,  in  its  matter  and  form,  is  natural  imagery  or  feeling 
combined  with  passion  and  fancy.  In  its  mode  of  conveyance,  it 
combines  the  ordinary  use  of  language  with  musical  expression. 
There  is  a  question  of  long  standing  in  what  the  essence  of  poetry 
consists  ;  or  what  it  is  that  determines  why  one  set  of  ideas  should 
be  expressed  in  prose,  another  in  verse.  Milton  has  told  us  his 
idea  of  poetry  in  a  single  line  — 

Thoughts  that  voluntary  move 
Harmonious  numbers. 

As  there  are  certain  sounds  that  excite  certain  movements,  and 
the  song  and  dance  go  together,  so  there  are  no  doubt  certain 
thoughts  that  lead  to  certain  tones  of  voice  or  modulations  of  sound, 
and  change  "the  words  of  Mercury  into  the  songs  of  Apollo." 
There  is  a  striking  instance  of  this  adaptation  of  the  movement 
of  sound  and  rhythm  to  the  subject  in  Spenser's  description  of 
the  Satyrs  accompanying  Una  to  the  cave  of  Sylvanus.2  On  the 
contrary,  there  is  nothing  either  musical  or  natural  in  the  ordinary 
construction  of  language.  It  is  a  thing  altogether  arbitrary  and 
conventional.  Neither  in  the  sounds  themselves,  which  are  the 
voluntary  signs  of  certain  ideas,  nor  in  their  grammatical  arrange^ 
ments  in  common  speech,  is  there  any  principle  of  natural  imita- 
tion, or  correspondence  to  the  individual  ideas,  or  to  the  tone  of 
feeling  with  which  they  are  conveyed  to  others.  The  jerks,  the 
breaks,  the  inequalities,  and  harshnesses  of  prose  are  fatal  to  the 
flow  of  a  poetical  imagination,  as  a  jolting  road  or  a  stumbling 
horse  disturbs  the  reverie  of  an  absent  man.  But  poetry  makes 
these  odds  all  even.  It  is  the  music  of  language  answering  to 
the  music  of  the  mind,  untying,  as  it  were,  "the  secret  soul  of 
harmony."  Wherever  any  object  takes  such  a  hold  of  the  mind  as 

1  Hazlitt  here  goes  off  to  the  contrast  of  Poetry  and  Painting. 

2  F.  Q.,  I.  vi.  13,  14. 


OX   POETRY  IN   GENERAL  387 

to  make  us  dwell  upon  it  and  brood  over  it,  melting  the  heart  in 
tenderness  or  kindling  it  to  a  sentiment  of  enthusiasm  ;  wherever 
a  movement  of  imagination  or  passion  is  impressed  on  the  mind, 
by  which  it  seeks  to  prolong  and  repeat  the  emotion,  to  bring  all 
other  objects  into  accord  with  it,  and  to  give  the  same  movement 
of  harmony,  sustained  and  continuous  or  gradually  varied  accord- 
ing to  the  occasion,  to  the  sounds  that  express  it  —  this  is  poetry. 
The  musical  in  sound  is  the  sustained  and  continuous ;  the  musical 
in  thought  is  the  sustained  and  continuous  also.  There  is  a  near 
connection  between  music  and  deep-rooted  passion.  Mad  people 
sing.  As  often  as  articulation  passes  naturally  into  intonation, 
there  poetry  begins.  Where  one  idea  gives  a  tone  and  colour  to 
others,  where  one  feeling  melts  others  into  it,  there  can  be  no 
reason  why  the  same  principle  should  not  be  extended  to  the 
sounds  by  which  the  voice  utters  these  emotions  of  the  soul 
and  blends  syllables  and  lines  into  each  other.  It  is  to  supply 
the  inherent  defect  of  harmony  in  the  customary  mechanism  of 
language,  to  make  the  sound  an  echo  to  the  sense,  when  the  sense 
becomes  a  sort  of  echo  to  itself  —  to  mingle  the  tide  of  verse,  "  the 
golden  cadences  of  poetry,"  with  the  tide  of  feeling,  flowing  and 
murmuring  as  it  flows  —  in  short,  to  take  the  language  of  the 
imagination  from  off  the  ground,  and  enable  it  to  spread  its  wings 
where  it  may  indulge  its  own  impulses  — 


Sailing  with  supreme  dominion 
Through  the  azure  deep  of  air  — 


without  being  stopped,  or  fretted,  or  diverted  with  the  abruptnesses 
and  petty  obstacles  and  discordant  flats  and  sharps  of  prose,  that 
poetry  was  invented.  It  is  to  common  language  what  springs  are 
to  a  carriage,  or  wings  to  feet.  In  ordinary  speech  we  arrive  at  a 
certain  harmony  by  the  modulations  of  the  voice  :  in  poetry  the 
same  thing  is  done  systematically  by  a  regular  collocation  of 
syllables.  It  has  been  well  observed  that  every  one  who  declaims 
warmly,  or  grows  intent  upon  a  subject,  rises  into  a  sort  of  blank 
verse  or  measured  prose.  The  merchant,  as  described  in  Chaucer, 
went  on  his  way  "  sounding  always  the  increase  of  his  winning." 
Every  prose  writer  has  more  or  less  of  rhythmical  adaptation, 


388  HAZLITT 

except  poets,  who,  when  deprived  of  the  regular  mechanism  of  verse, 
seem  to  have  no  principle  of  modulation  left  in  their  writings. 

An  excuse  might  be  made  for  rhyme  in  the  same  manner.  It  is 
but  fair  that  the  ear  should  linger  on  the  sounds  that  delight  it, 
or  avail  itself  of  the  same  brilliant  coincidence  and  unexpected 
recurrence  of  syllables  that  have  been  displayed  in  the  invention 
and  collocation  of  images.  It  is  allowed  that  rhyme  assists  the 
memory ;  and  a  man  of  wit  and  shrewdness  has  been  heard  to  say 
that  the  only  four  good  lines  of  poetry  are  the  well-known  ones 
which  tell  the  number  of  days  in  the  months  of  the  year  — 

Thirty  days  hath  September,  etc. 

But  if  the  jingle  of  names  assists  the  memory,  may  it  not  also 
quicken  the  fancy  ?  and  there  are  other  things  worth  having  at  our 
fingers'  ends  besides  the  contents  of  the  almanac.  Pope's  versifi- 
cation is  tiresome  from  its  excessive  sweetness  and  uniformity. 
Shakespeare's  blank  verse  is  the  perfection  of  dramatic  dialogue. 

All  is  not  poetry  that  passes  for  such  ;  nor  does  verse  make  the 
whole  difference  between  poetry  and  prose.  The  Iliad  does  not 
cease  to  be  poetry  in  a  literal  translation  ;  and  Addison's  Campaign 
has  been  very  properly  denominated  a  Gazette  in  rhyme.  Com- 
mon prose  differs  from  poetry,  as  treating  for  the  most  part  either 
of  such  trite,  familiar,  and  irksome  matters  of  fact  as  convey  no 
extraordinary  impulse  to  the  imagination,  or  else  of  such  difficult 
and  laborious  processes  of  the  understanding  as  do  not  admit  of 
the  wayward  or  violent  movements  either  of  the  imagination  or 
the  passions. 

I  will  mention  three  works  which  come  as  near  to  poetry  as 
possible  without  absolutely  being  so  —  namely,  the  Pilgrim's 
Progress,  Robinson  Crusoe,  and  the  Tales  of  Boccaccio.  Chaucer 
and  Dryden  have  translated  some  of  the  last  into  English  rhyme, 
but  the  essence  and  the  power  of  poetry  was  there  before.  That 
which  lifts  the  spirit  above  the  earth,  which  draws  the  soul  out  of 
itself  with  indescribable  longings,  is  poetry  in  kind,  and  generally 
fit  to  become  so  in  name,  by  being  "  married  to  immortal  verse." 
If  it  is  of  the  essence  of  poetry  to  strike  and  fix  the  imagination, 
whether  we  will  or  no,  to  make  the  eye  of  childhood  glisten  with 


ON   POETRY  IN  GENERAL  389 

the  starting  tear,  to  be  never  thought  of  afterwards  .with  indiffer- 
ence, John  Bunyan  and  Daniel  Defoe  may  be  permitted  to  pass 
for  poets  in  their  way.  The  mixture  of  fancy  and  reality  in 
the  Pilgrim's  Progress  was  never  equalled  in  any  allegory.  His 
pilgrims  walk  above  the  earth,  and  yet  are  on  it.  What  zeal, 
what  beauty,  what  truth  of  fiction  !  What  deep  feeling  in  the 
description  of  Christian's  swimming  across  the  water  at  last,  and 
in  the  picture  of  the  Shining  Ones  within  the  gates,  with  wings  at 
their  backs  and  garlands  on  their  heads,  who  are  to  wipe  all  tears 
from  his  eyes  !  The  writer's  genius,  though  not  "  dipped  in  dews 
of  Castalie,"  was  baptized  with  the  Holy  Spirit  and  with  fire.  The 
prints  in  this  book  are  no  small  part  of  it.  If  the  confinement  of 
Philoctetes  in  the  island  of  Lemnos  was  a  subject  for  the  most 
beautiful  of  all  the  Greek  tragedies,  what  shall  we  say  to  Robinson 
Crusoe  in  his  ?  Take  the  speech  of  the  Greek  hero  on  leaving  his 
cave,  beautiful  as  it  is,  and  compare  it  with  the  reflections  of  the 
English  adventurer  in  his  solitary  place  of  confinement.  The 
thoughts  of  home,  and  of  all  from  which  he  is  for  ever  cut  off, 
swell  and  press  against  his  bosom  as  the  heaving  ocean  rolls  its 
ceaseless  tide  against  the  rocky  shore,  and  the  very  beatings  of  his 
heart  become  audible  in  the  eternal  silence  that  surrounds  him. 
Thus  he  says  : 

As  I  walked  about,  either  in  my  hunting,  or  for  viewing  the  country,  the 
anguish  of  my  soul  at  my  condition  would  break  out  upon  me  on  a  sudden,  and 
my  very  heart  would  die  within  me  to  think  of  the  woods,  the  mountains,  the 
deserts  I  was  in,  and  how  I  was  a  prisoner,  locked  up  with  the  eternal  bars  and 
bolts  of  the  ocean,  in  an  uninhabited  wilderness,  without  redemption.  In  the 
midst  of  the  greatest  composures  of  my  mind,  this  would  break  out  upon  me 
like  a  storm,  and  make  me  wring  my  hands,  and  weep  like  a  child.  Sometimes 
it  would  take  me  in  the  middle  of  my  work,  and  I  would  immediately  sit  down 
and  sigh,  and  look  upon  the  ground  for  an  hour  or  two  together ;  and  this  was 
still  worse  to  me,  for  if  I  could  burst  out  into  tears,  or  vent  myself  by  words,  it 
•would  go  off,  and  the  grief,  having  exhausted  itself,  would  abate. 

The  story  of  his  adventures  would  not  make  a  poem  like  the 
Odyssey,  it  is  true  ;  but  the  relator  had  the  true  genius  of  a  poet. 
It  has  been  made  a  question  whether  Richardson's  romances  are 
poetry  ;  and  the  answer,  perhaps,  is  that  they  are  not  poetry 
because  they  are  not  romance.  The  interest  is  worked  up  to  an 


390  HAZLITT 

inconceivable  height ;  but  it  is  by  an  infinite  number  of  little 
things,  by  incessant  labour  and  calls  upon  the  attention,  by  a 
repetition  of  blows  that  have  no  rebound  in  them.  The  sympathy 
excited  is  not  a  voluntary  contribution,  but  a  tax.  Nothing  is 
unforced  and  spontaneous.  There  is  a  want  of  elasticity  and 
motion.  The  story  does  not  "  give  an  echo  to  the  seat  where  love 
is  throned."  The  heart  does  not  answer  of  itself  like  a  chord  in 
music.  The  fancy  does  not  run  on  before  the  writer  with  breath- 
less expectation,  but  is  dragged  along  with  an  infinite  number  of 
pins  and  wheels,  like  those  with  which  the  Lilliputians  dragged 
Gulliver  pinioned  to  the  royal  palace.  Sir  Charles  Grandison  is  a 
coxcomb.  What  sort  of  a  figure  would  he  cut,  translated  into  an 
epic  poem,  by  the  side  of  Achilles  ?  Clarissa,  the  divine  Clarissa, 
is  too  interesting  by  half.  She  is  interesting  in  her  ruffles,  in  her 
gloves,  her  samplers,  her  aunts  and  uncles  —  she  is  interesting 
in  all  that  is  uninteresting.  Such  things,  however  intensely  they 
may  be  brought  home  to  us,  are  not  conductors  to  the  imagination. 
There  is  infinite  truth  and  feeling  in  Richardson  ;  but  it  is  extracted 
from  a  caput  tnortuum  of  circumstances  :  it  does  not  evaporate  of 
itself.  His  poetical  genius  is  like  Ariel  confined  in  a  pine-tree,  and 
requires  an  artificial  process  to  let  it  out.  Shakespeare  says  — 

Our  poesy  is  as  a  gum,  which  oozes 

From  whence  't  is  nourished ;  .   .  .  our  gentle  flame 

Provokes  itself,  and,  like  the  current,  flies 

Each  bound  it  chafes.* 

I  shall  conclude  this  general  account  with  some  remarks  on  four 
of  the  principal  works  of  poetry  in  the  world,  at  different  periods 

*  Burke's  writings  are  not  poetry,  notwithstanding  the  vividness  of  the 
fancy,  because  the  subject-matter  is  abstruse  and  dry :  not  natural,  but  arti- 
ficial. The  difference  between  poetry  and  eloquence  is  that  the  one  is  the 
eloquence  of  the  imagination,  and  the  other  of  the  understanding.  Eloquence 
tries  to  persuade  the  will  and  convince  the  reason :  poetry  produces  its  effect 
by  instantaneous  sympathy.  Nothing  is  a  subject  for  poetry  that  admits  of  a 
dispute.  Poets  are  in  general  bad  prose  writers,  because  their  images,  though 
fine  in  themselves,  are  not  to  the  purpose  and  do  not  carry  on  the  argument. 
The  French  poetry  wants  the  forms  of  the  imagination.  It  is  didactic  more 
than  dramatic.  And  some  of  our  own  poetry  which  has  been  most  admired 
is  only  poetry  in  the  rhyme,  and  in  the  studied  use  of  poetic  diction. 


ON   POETRY  IN  GENERAL  391 

of  history  —  Homer,  the  Bible,  Dante,  and,  let  me  add,  Ossian. 
In  Homer,  the  principle  of  action  or  life  is  predominant ;  in  the 
Bible,  the  principle  of  faith  and  the  idea  of  Providence  ;  Dante  is 
a  personification  of  blind  will ;  and  in  Ossian  we  see  the  decay  of 
life  and  the  lag  end  of  the  world.  Homer's  poetry  is  the  heroic  : 
it  is  full  of  life  and  action  ;  it  is  bright  as  the  day,  strong  as  a 
river.  In  the  vigour  of  his  intellect,  he  grapples  with  all  the 
objects  of  nature,  and  enters  into  all  the  relations  of  social  life.  He 
saw  many  countries,  and  the  manners  of  many  men  ;  and  he  has 
brought  them  all  together  in  his  poem.  He  describes  his  heroes 
going  to  battle  with  a  prodigality  of  life  arising  from  an  exuberance 
of  animal  spirits  :  we  see  them  before  us,  their  number  and  their 
order  of  battle,  poured  out  upon  the  plain  "all  plumed  like 
ostriches,  like  eagles  newly  bathed,  wanton  as  goats,  wild  as  young 
bulls,  youthful  as  May,  and  gorgeous  as  the  sun  at  midsummer," 
covered  with  glittering  armour,  with  dust  and  blood  ;  while  the 
gods  quaff  their  nectar  in  golden  cups  or  mingle  in  the  fray,  and 
the  old  men  assembled  on  the  walls  of  Troy  rise  up  with  reverence 
as  Helen  passes  by  them.  The  multitude  of  things  in  Homer  is 
wonderful  :  their  splendour,  their  truth,  their  force,  and  variety. 
His  poetry  is,  like  his  religion,  the  poetry  of  number  and  form  : 
he  describes  the  bodies  as  well  as  the  souls  of  men. 

The  poetry  of  the  Bible  is  that  of  imagination  and  of  faith  :  it 
is  abstract  and  disembodied  :  it  is  not  the  poetry  of  form,  but  of 
power ;  not  of  multitude,  but  of  immensity.  It  does  not  divide 
into  many,  but  aggrandizes  into  one.  Its  ideas  of  nature  are  like 
its  ideas  of  God.  It  is  not  the  poetry  of  social  life,  but  of  solitude  : 
each  man  seems  alone  in  the  world  with  the  original  forms  of 
nature  —  the  rocks,  the  earth,  and  the  sky.  It  is  not  the  poetry 
of  action  or  heroic  enterprise,  but  of  faith  in  a  supreme  Providence 
and  resignation  to  the  power  that  governs  the  universe.  As  the 
idea  of  God  was  removed  farther  from  humanity  and  a  scattered 
polytheism,  it  became  more  profound  and  intense  as  it  became 
more  universal,  for  the  Infinite  is  present  to  everything  :  "  If  we 
fly  into  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth,  it  is  there  also  ;  if  we 
turn  to  the  east  or  the  west,  we  cannot  escape  from  it."  Man  is 
thus  aggrandized  in  the  image  of  his  Maker.  The  history  of  the 


392  HAZLITT 

patriarchs  is  of  this  kind  :  they  are  founders  of  the  chosen  race 
of  people,  the  inheritors  of  the  earth  ;  they  exist  in  the  generations 
which  are  to  corne  after  them.  Their  poetry,  like  their  religious 
creed,  is  vast,  unformed,  obscure,  and  infinite ;  a  vision  is  upon  it ; 
an  invisible  hand  is  suspended  over  it.  The  spirit  of  the  Christian 
religion  consists  in  the  glory  hereafter  to  be  revealed  ;  but  in  the 
Hebrew  dispensation  Providence  took  an  immediate  share  in  the 
affairs  of  this  life.  Jacob's  dream  arose  out  of  this  intimate  com- 
munion between  heaven  and  earth  :  it  was  this  that  let  down,  in 
the  sight  of  the  youthful  patriarch,  a  golden  ladder  from  the  sky 
to  the  earth,  with  angels  ascending  and  descending  upon  it,  and 
shed  a  light  upon  the  lonely  place  which  can  never  pass  away. 
The  story  of  Ruth  again,  is  as  if  all  the  depth  of  natural  affection 
in  the  human  race  was  involved  in  her  breast.  There  are  descrip- 
tions in  the  book  of  Job  more  prodigal  of  imagery,  more  intense  in 
passion,  than  anything  in  Homer  —  as  that  of  the  state  of  his 
prosperity,  and  of  the  vision  that  came  upon  him  by  night.  The 
metaphors  in  the  Old  Testament  are  more  boldly  figurative. 
Things  were  collected  more  into  masses,  and  gave  a  greater 
momentum  to  the  imagination. 

Dante  was  the  father  of  modern  poetry,  and  he  may  therefore 
claim  a  place  in  this  connection.  His  poem  is  the  first  great  step 
from  Gothic  darkness  and  barbarism  ;  and  the  struggle  of  thought 
in  it  to  burst  the  thraldom  in  which  the  human  mind  had  been 
so  long  held,  is  felt  in  every  page.  He  stood  bewildered,  not 
appalled,  on  that  dark  shore  which  separates  the  ancient  and  the 
modern  world  ;  and  saw  the  glories  of  antiquity  dawning  through 
the  abyss  of  time,  while  revelation  opened  its  passage  to  the  other 
world.  He  was  lost  in  wonder  at  what  had  been  done  before  him, 
and  he  dared  to  emulate  it.  Dante  seems  to  have  been  indebted  to 
the  Bible  for  the  gloomy  tone  of  his  mind,  as  well  as  for  the  pro- 
phetic fury  which  exalts  and  kindles  his  poetry  ;  but  he  is  utterly 
unlike  Homer.  His  genius  is  not  a  sparkling  flame,  but  the  sullen 
heat  of  a  furnace.  He  is  power,  passion,  self-will  personified.  In 
all  that  relates  to  the  descriptive  or  fanciful  part  of  poetry,  he 
bears  no  comparison  to  many  who  have  gone  before  or  who 
have  come  after  him  ;  but  there  is  a  gloomy  abstraction  in  his 


ON  POETRY  IN  GENERAL  393 

conceptions,  which  lies  like  a  dead  weight  upon  the  mind ;  a  benumb- 
ing stupor,  a  breathless  awe,  from  the  intensity  of  the  impression ; 
a  terrible  obscurity,  like  that  which  oppresses  us  in  dreams  ;  an 
identity  of  interest,  which  moulds  every  object  to  its  own  purposes 
and  clothes  all- things  with  the  passions  and  imaginations  of  the 
human  soul,  —  that  make  amends  for  all  other  deficiencies.  The 
immediate  objects  he  presents  to  the  mind  are  not  much  in  them- 
selves ;  they  want  grandeur,  beauty,  and  order  ;  but  they  become 
everything  by  the  force  of  the  character  he  impresses  upon  them. 
His  mind  lends  its  own  power  to  the  objects  which  it  contemplates, 
instead  of  borrowing  it  from  them.  He  takes  advantage  even  of 
the  nakedness  and  dreary  vacuity  of  his  subject.  His  imagination 
peoples  the  shades  of  death  and  broods  over  the  silent  air.  He  is 
the  severest  of  all  writers,  the  most  hard  and  impenetrable,  the 
most  opposite  to  the  flowery  and  glittering  ;  who  relies  most  on 
his  own  power,  and  the  sense  of  it  in  others,  and  who  leaves  most 
room  to  the  imagination  of  his  readers.  Dante's  only  endeavour 
is  to  interest ;  and  he  interests  by  exciting  our  sympathy  with 
the  emotion  by  which  he  is  himself  possessed.  He  does  not  place 
before  us  the  objects  by  which  that  emotion  has  been  created ;  but 
he  seizes  on  the  attention,  by  showing  us  the  effect  they  produce 
on  his  feelings ;  and  his  poetry  accordingly  gives  the  same  thrill- 
ing and  overwhelming  sensation  which  is  caught  by  gazing  on  the 
face  of  a  person  who  has  seen  some  object  of  horror.  The  improba- 
bility of  the  events,  the  abruptness  and  monotony  in  the  Inferno, 
are  excessive :  but  the  interest  never  flags,  from  the  continued  ear- 
nestness of  the  author's  mind.  Dante's  great  power  is  in  combining 
internal  feelings  with  external  objects.  Thus  the  gate  of  hell,  on 
which  that  withering  inscription  is  written,  seems  to  be  endowed 
with  speech  and  consciousness,  and  to  utter  its  dread  warning  not 
without  a  sense  of  moral  woes.  This  author  habitually  unites  the 
absolutely  local  and  individual  with  the  greatest  wildness  and 
mysticism.  In  the  midst  of  the  obscure  and  shadowy  regions  of 
the  lower  world  a  tomb  suddenly  rises  up  with  the  inscription,  "I  am 
the  tomb  of  Pope  Anastasius  the  Sixth";  and  half  the  person- 
ages whom  he  has  crowded  into  the  Inferno  are  his  own  acquaint- 
ance. All  this,  perhaps,  tends  to  heighten  the  effect  by  the  bold 


394  HAZLITT 

intermixture  of  realities,  and  by  an  appeal,  as  it  were,  to  the  indi- 
vidual knowledge  and  experience  of  the  reader.  He  affords  few 
subjects  for  picture.  There  is,  indeed,  one  gigantic  one,  that  of 
Count  Ugolino,  of  which  Michael  Angelo  made  a  bas-relief,  and 
which  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  ought  not  to  have  painted. 

Another  writer  whom  I  shall  mention  last,  and  whom  I  cannot 
persuade  myself  to  think  a  mere  modern  in  the  groundwork,  is 
Ossian.  He  is  a  feeling  and  a  name  that  can  never  be  destroyed 
in  the  minds  of  his  readers.  As  Homer  is  the  first  vigor  and  lusti- 
head,  Ossian  is  the  decay  and  old  age  of  poetry.  He  lives  only  in 
the  recollection  and  regret  of  the  past.  There  is  one  impression 
which  he  conveys  more  entirely  than  all  other  poets  —  namely,  the 
sense  of  privation,  the  loss  of  all  things,  of  friends,  of  good  name, 
of  country ;  he  is  even  without  God  in  the  world.  He  converses 
only  with  the  spirits  of  the  departed,  with  the  motionless  and 
silent  clouds.  The  cold  moonlight  sheds  its  faint  lustre  on  his 
head ;  the  fox  peeps  out  of  the  ruined  tower ;  the  thistle  waves 
its  beard  to  the  wandering  gale  ;  and  the  strings  of  his  harp  seem, 
as  the  hand  of  age,  as  the  tale  of  other  times  passes  over  them, 
to  sigh  and  rustle  like  the  dry  reeds  in  the  winter's  wind !  The 
feeling  of  cheerless  desolation,  of  the  loss  of  the  pith  and  sap  of 
existence,  of  the  annihilation  of  the  substance,  and  the  clinging 
to  the  shadow  of  all  things,  as  in  a  mock  embrace,  is  here  perfect. 
In  this  way  the  lamentation  of  Selma  for  the  loss  of  Salgar  is  the 
finest  of  all.  If  it  were  indeed  possible  to  show  that  this  writer 
was  nothing,  it  would  only  be  another  instance  of  mutability, 
another  blank  made,  another  void  left  in  the  heart,  another  con- 
firmation of  that  feeling  which  makes  him  so  often  complain, 
"  Roll  on,  ye  dark  brown  years,  ye  bring  no  joy  on  your  wing  to 

Ossian  ! '  From  The  English  Poets. 

POPE   AND   CRABBE 

Our  author  [Crabbe]  is  himself  a  little  jealous  of  the  prudish 
fidelity  of  his  homely  Muse,  and  tries  to  justify  himself  by  preced- 
ents. He  brings  as  a  parallel  of  merely  literal  description,  Pope's 
lines  on  the  gay  Duke  of  Buckingham,  beginning  "  In  the  worst 


POPE  AND  CRABBE  395 

inn,"  etc.  But  surely  nothing  can  be  more  dissimilar.  Pope 
describes  what  is  striking :  Crabbe  would  have  described  merely 
what  was  there.  The  objects  in  Pope  stand  out  to  the  fancy,  from 
the  mixture  of  the  mean  with  the  gaudy,  from  the  contrast  of  the 
scene  and  the  character.  There  is  an  appeal  to  the  imagination ; 
you  see  what  is  passing  in  a  poetical  point  of  view.1  In  Crabbe 
there  is  no  fire,  no  contrast,  no  impulse  given  to  the  mind.  It  is 
all  on  a  level  and  of  a  piece.  In  fact  there  is  so  little  connection 
between  the  subject-matter  of  Mr.  Crabbe's  lines  and  the  ornament 
of  rhyme  that  is  tacked  to  them,  that  many  of  his  verses  read  like 
serious  burlesque,  and  the  parodies  which  have  been  made  on  them 
are  hardly  so  quaint  as  the  originals. 

From  The  Spirit  of  the  Age,  art.  "Mr.  Campbell  and  Mr.  Crabbe." 

1  Observe  the  coincidence  with  Patrizzi  ante  (p.  88)  and  Hugo  post  (p.  418), 
almost  as  certainly  fortuitous  in  the  one  case  as  in  the  other.  It  is  for  this,  and 
for  the  remarkable  unexpressed  condemnation  of  the  Wordsworth ian  theory, 
which  no  one  so  faithfully  carries  out  as  Crabbe,  that  the  passage  is  quoted. 
To  Crabbe  himself  it  is  not  universally  just. 


XXIX 

SHELLEY 

DEFENCE   OF   POETRY 

(This  very  interesting  piece  is  more  in  the  spirit  of  the  Italian-Eliza- 
bethan apologies  than  anything  else  written  so  late  (1821).  It  is,  in  fact, 
a  protest  in  that  spirit,  not  so  much  against  the  Puritan  as  against  the 
18th-century  "  good  sense  "  view  of  the  matter.  It  contains,  however,  as  is 
natural,  no  few  traces  of  the  18th  century  itself,  in  its  generalizing  assump- 
tions about  "  men  dancing  and  singing  in  the  youth  of  the  world,"  etc. 
And  part  of  it  is  beyond  all  doubt  directed  rather  against  Wordsworth's 
doctrines,  though  written  in  a  spirit  almost  wholly  akin  to  Wordsworth's 
own.  The  first  and  last  parts,  amounting  each  to  nearly  a  quarter  of  the 
whole,  are  given  entire ;  the  middle,  partly  historical,  partly  discursive- 
argumentative,  is  omitted  as  more  controversial  and  less  authoritative.) 

According  to  one  mode  of  regarding  those  two  classes  of  mental 
action,  which  are  called  reason  and  imagination,  the  former  may 
be  considered  as  mind  contemplating  the  relations  borne  by  one 
thought  to  another,  however  produced ;  and  the  latter,  as  mind 
acting  upon  those  thoughts  so  as  to  colour  them  with  its  own  light, 
and  composing  from  them,  as  from  elements,  other  thoughts,  each 
containing  within  itself  the  principle  of  its  own  integrity.  The 
one  is  the  TO  TTOLUV,  or  the  principle  of  synthesis,  and  has  for  its 
objects  those  forms  which  are  common  to  universal  nature  and 
existence  itself ;  the  other  is  the  TO  Xoyi^eiv,  or  principle  of  analy- 
sis, and  its  action  regards  the  relations  of  things  simply  as  rela- 
tions ;  considering  thoughts,  not  in  their  integral  unity,  but  as  the 
algebraical  representations  which  conduct  to  certain  general  results. 
Reason  is  the  enumeration  of  qualities  already  known  ;  imagination 
is  the  perception  of  the  value  of  those  quantities,  both  separately 
and  as  a  whole.  Reason  respects  the  differences,  and  imagination 

396 


DEFENCE  OF  POETRY  397 

the  similitudes  of  things.  Reason  is  to  imagination  as  the  instru- 
ment to  the  agent,  as  the  body  to  the  spirit,  as  the  shadow  to  the 
substance. 

Poetry,  in  a  general  sense,  may  be  defined  to  be  "  the  expression 
of  the  imagination  "  :  and  poetry  is  connate  with  the  origin  of  man. 
Man  is  an  instrument  over  which  a  series  of  external  and  internal 
impressions  are  driven,  like  the  alternations  of  an  ever-changing 
wind  over  an  ^Eolian  lyre,  which  move  it  by  their  motion  to  ever- 
changing  melody.  But  there  is  a  principle  within  the  human 
being,  and  perhaps  within  all  sentient  beings,  which  acts  other- 
wise than  in  the  lyre,  and  produces  not  melody  alone,  but  harmony, 
by  an  internal  adjustment  of  the  sounds  or  motions  thus  excited 
to  the  impressions  which  excite  them.  It  is  as  if  the  lyre  could 
accommodate  its  chords  to  the  motions  of  that  which  strikes  them, 
in  a  determined  proportion  of  sound ;  even  as  the  musician  can 
accommodate  his  voice  to  the  sound  of  the  lyre.  A  child  at  play 
by  itself  will  express  its  delight  by  its  voice  and  motions ;  and 
every  inflexion  of  tone  and  every  gesture  will  bear  exact  relation 
to  a  corresponding  antitype  in  the  pleasurable  impressions  which 
awakened  it ;  it  will  be  the  reflected  image  of  that  impression;  and 
as  the  lyre  trembles  and  sounds  after  the  wind  has  died  away,  so 
the  child  seeks,  by  prolonging  in  its  voice  and  motions  the  duration 
of  the  effect,  to  prolong  also  a  consciousness  of  the  cause.  In  rela- 
tion to  the  objects  which  delight  a  child,  these  expressions  are 
what  poetry  is  to  higher  objects.  The  savage  (for  the  savage  is  to 
ages  what  the  child  is  to  years)  expresses  the  emotions  produced 
in  him  by  surrounding  objects  in  a  similar  manner ;  and  language 
and  gesture,  together  with  plastic  or  pictorial  imitation,  become  the 
image  of  the  combined  effect  of  those  objects,  and  of  his  apprehen- 
sion of  them.  Man  in  society,  with  all  his  passions  and  his  pleas- 
ures, next  becomes  the  object  of  the  passions  and  pleasures  of  man; 
an  additional  class  of  emotions  produces  an  augmented  treasure  of 
expressions;  and  language,  gesture,  and  the  imitative  arts  become 
at  once  the  representation  and  the  medium,  the  pencil  and  the  pic- 
ture, the  chisel  and  the  statue,  the  chord  and  the  harmony.  The 
social  sympathies,  or  those  laws  from  which,  as  from  its  elements, 
society  results,  begin  to  develop  themselves  from  the  moment  that 


398        .  SHELLEY 

two  human  beings  coexist ;  the  future  is  contained  within  the  pres- 
ent, as  the  plant  within  the  seed:  and  equality,  diversity,  unity, 
contrast,  mutual  dependence,  become  the  principles  alone  capable 
of  affording  the  motives  according  to  which  the  will  of  a  social 
being  is  determined  to  action,  inasmuch  as  he  is  social;  and  con- 
stitute pleasure  in  sensation,  virtue  in  sentiment,  beauty  in  art, 
truth  in  reasoning,  and  love  in  the  intercourse  of  kind.  Hence 
men,  even  in  the  infancy  of  society,  observe  a  certain  order  in  their 
words  and  actions,  "distinct  from  that  of  the  objects  and  the  impres- 
sions represented  by  them,  all  expression  being  subject  to  the  laws 
of  that  from  which  it  proceeds.  But  let  us  dismiss  those  more 
general  considerations  which  might  involve  an  enquiry  into  the 
principles  of  society  itself,  and  restrict  our  view  to  the  manner  in 
which  the  imagination  is  expressed  upon  its  forms. 

In  the  youth  of  the  world,  men  dance  and  sing  and  imitate 
natural  objects,  observing  in  these  actions,  as  in  all  others,  a  cert- 
ain rhythm  or  order.  And,  although  all  men  observe  a  similar, 
they  observe  not  the  same  order,  in  the  motions  of  the  dance,  in 
the  melody  of  the  song,  in  the  combinations  of  language,  in  the 
series  of  their  imitations  of  natural  objects.  For  there  is  a  certain 
order  or  rhythm  belonging  to  each  of  these  classes  of  mimetic  repre- 
sentation, from  which  the  hearer  and  the  spectator  receive  an 
intenser  and  purer  pleasure  than  from  any  other :  the  sense  of 
an  approximation  to  this  order  has  been  called  taste  by  modern 
writers.  Every  man  in  the  infancy  of  art  observes  an  order  which 
approximates  more  or  less  closely  to  that  from  which  this  highest 
delight  results;  but  the  diversity  is  not  sufficiently  marked,  as  that 
its  gradations  should  be  sensible,  except  in  those  instances  where 
the  predominance  of  this  faculty  of  approximation  to  the  beautiful 
(for  so  we  may  be  permitted  to  name  the  relation  between  this 
highest  pleasure  and  its  cause)  is  very  great.  Those  in  whom  it 
exists  in  excess  are  poets,  in  the  most  universal  sense  of  the  word; 
and  the  pleasure  resulting  from  the  manner  in  which  they  express 
the  influence  of  society  or  nature  upon  their  own  minds,  commun- 
icates itself  to  others,  and  gathers  a  sort  of  reduplication  from  that 
community.  Their  language  is  vitally  metaphorical ;  that  is,  it 
marks  the  before  unapprehended  relations  of  things  and  perpetuates 


DEFENCE  OF  POETRY  399 

their  apprehension,  until  the  words  which  represent  them,  become, 
through  time,  signs  for  portions  or  classes  of  thoughts  instead  of 
pictures  of  integral  thoughts  ;  and  then,  if  no  new  poets  should 
arise  to  create  afresh  the  associations  which  have  been  thus  disorg- 
anized, language  will  be  dead  to  all  the  nobler  purposes  of  human 
intercourse.  These  similitudes  or  relations  are  finely  said  by  Lord 
Bacon  to  be  "the  same  footsteps  of  nature  impressed  upon  the  vari- 
ous subjects  of  the  world"*  —  and  he  considers  the  faculty  which 
perceives  them  as  the  storehouse  of  axioms  common  to  all  know- 
ledge. In  the  infancy  of  society  every  author  is  necessarily  a  poet, 
because  language  itself  is  poetry ;  and  to  be  a  poet  is  to  apprehend 
the  true  and  the  beautiful ;  in  a  word,  the  good  which  exists  in  the 
relation  subsisting,  first  between  existence  and  perception,  and 
secondly  between  perception  and  expression.  Every  original  langu- 
age near  to  its  source  is  in  itself  the  chaos  of  a  cyclic  poem :  the 
copiousness  of  lexicography  and  the  distinctions  of  grammar  are 
the  works  of  a  later  age,  and  are  merely  the  catalogue  and  the 
form  of  the  creations  of  poetry. 

But  poets,  or  those  who  imagine  and  express  this  indestructible 
order,  are  not  only  the  authors  of  language  and  of  music,  of 'the 
dance,  and  architecture,  and  statuary,  and  painting :  they  are  the 
institutors  of  laws,  and  the  founders  of  civil  society,  and  the  invent- 
ors of  the  arts  of  life,  and  the  teachers,  who  draw  into  a  certain 
propinquity  with  the  beautiful  and  the  true,  that  partial  apprehen- 
sion of  the  agencies  of  the  invisible  world  which  is  called  religion. 
Hence  all  original  religions  are  allegorical,  or  susceptible  of  all- 
egory, and,  like  Janus,  have  a  double  face  of  false  and  true.  Poets, 
according  to  the  circumstances  of  the  age  and  nation  in  which  they 
appeared,  were  called,  in  the  earlier  epochs  of  the  world,  legis- 
lators, or  prophets :  a  poet  essentially  comprises  and  unites  both 
these  characters.  For  he  not  only  beholds  intensely  the  present 
as  it  is,  and  discovers  those  laws  according  to  which  present  things 
ought  to  be  ordered,  but  he  beholds  the  future  in  the  present,  and 
his  thoughts  are  the  germs  of  the  flower  and  the  fruit  of  latest 
time.  Not  that  I  assert  poets  to  be  prophets  in  the  gross  sense 
of  the  word,  or  that  they  can  foretell  the  form  as  surely  as  they 
*  De  Augment.  Scient.,  cap.  I,  lib.  iii. 


400  SHELLEY 

foreknow  the  spirit  of  events  :  such  is  the  pretence  of  superstition, 
which  would  make  poetry  an  attribute  of  prophecy  rather  than 
prophecy  an  attribute  of  poetry.  A  poet  participates  in  the  eter- 
nal, the  infinite,  and  the  one ;  as  far  as  relates  to  his  conceptions, 
time  and  place  and  number  are  not.  The  grammatical  forms  which 
express  the  moods  of  time,  and  the  difference  of  persons,  and  the 
distinction  of  place,  are  convertible  with  respect  to  the  highest 
poetry  without  injuring  it  as  poetry;  and  the  choruses  of  ^Eschy- 
lus,  and  the  book  of  Job,  and  Dante's  Paradise,  would  afford,  more 
than  any  other  writings,  examples  of  this  fact,  if  the  limits  of  this 
essay  did  not  forbid  citation.  The  creations  of  sculpture,  painting, 
and  music  are  illustrations  still  more  decisive. 

Language,  colour,  form,  and  religious  and  civil  habits  of  action 
are  all  the  instruments  and  materials  of  poetry ;  they  may  be  called 
poetry  by  that  figure  of  speech  which  considers  the  effect  as  a 
synonym  of  the  cause.  But  poetry  in  a  more  restricted  sense 
expresses  those  arrangements  of  language,  and  especially  metrical 
language,  which  are  created  by  that  imperial  faculty,  whose  throne 
is  curtained  within  the  invisible  nature  of  man.  And  this  springs 
from  the  nature  itself  of  language,  which  is  a  more  direct  repre- 
sentation of  the  actions  and  passions  of  our  internal  being,  and  is 
susceptible  of  more  various  and  delicate  combinations  than  colour, 
form,  or  motion,  and  is  more  plastic  and  obedient  to  the  control  of 
that  faculty  of  which  it  is  the  creation.  For  language  is  arbitrarily 
produced  by  the  imagination,  and  has  relation  to  thoughts  alone ; 
but  all  other  materials,  instruments,  and  conditions  of  art  have 
relations  among  each  other,  which  limit  and  interpose  between  con- 
ception and  expression.  The  former  is  as  a  mirror  which  reflects, 
the  latter  as  a  cloud  which  enfeebles,  the  light  of  which  both  are 
mediums  of  communication.  Hence  the  fame  of  sculptors,  painters, 
and  musicians,  although  the  intrinsic  powers  of  the  great  masters 
of  these  arts  may  yield  in  no  degree  to  that  of  those  who  have 
employed  language  as  the  hieroglyphic  of  their  thoughts,  has  never 
equalled  that  of  poets  in  the  restricted  sense  of  the  term ;  as  two 
performers  of  equal  skill  will  produce  unequal  effects  from  a  guitar 
and  a  harp.  The  fame  of  legislators  and  founders  of  religions,  so 
long  as  their  institutions  last,  alone  seems  to  exceed  that  of  poets 


DEFENCE  OF  POETRY  401 

in  the  restricted  sense  ;  but  it  can  scarcely  be  a  question  whether, 
if  we  deduct  the  celebrity  which  their  flattery  of  the  gross  opinions 
of  the  vulgar  usually  conciliates,  together  with  that  which  belonged 
to  them  in  their  higher  character  of  poets,  any  excess  will  remain. 

We  have  thus  circumscribed  the  word  poetry  within  the  limits 
of  that  art  which  is  the  most  familiar  and  the  most  perfect  expres- 
sion of  the  faculty  itself.  It  is  necessary,  however,  to  make  the 
circle  still  narrower,  and  to-  determine  the  distinction  between 
measured  and  unmeasured  language  ;  for  the  popular  division  into 
prose  and  verse  is  inadmissible  in  accurate  philosophy. 

Sounds  as  well  as  thoughts  have  relation  both  between  each 
other  and  towards  that  which  they  represent,  and  a  perception  of 
the  order  of  those  relations  has  always  been  found  connected  with 
a  perception  of  the  order  of  the  relations  of  thoughts.  Hence  the 
language  of  poets  has  ever  affected  a  certain  uniform  and  harmoni- 
ous recurrence  of  sound,  without  which  it  were  not  poetry,  and 
which  is  scarcely  less  indispensable  to  the  communication  of  its 
influence  than  the  words  themselves,  without  reference  to  that 
peculiar  order.  Hence  the  vanity  of  translation ;  it  were  as  wise 
to  cast  a  violet  into  a  crucible  that  you  might  discover  the  formal 
principle  of  its  colour  and  odour,  as  seek  to  transfuse  from  one 
language  into  another  the  creations  of  a  poet.  The  plant  must 
spring  again  from  its  seed,  or  it  will  bear  no  flower  —  and  this  is 
the  burthen  of  the  curse  of  Babel. 

An  observation  of  the  regular  mode  of  the  recurrence  of  harmony 
in  the  language  of  poetical  minds,  together  with  its  relation  to 
music,  produced  metre,  or  a  certain  system  of  traditional  forms 
of  harmony  and  language.  Yet  it  is  by  no  means  essential  that  a 
poet  should  accommodate  his  language  to  this  traditional  form, 
so  that  the  harmony,  which  is  its  spirit,  be  observed.  The  prac- 
tice is  indeed  convenient  and  popular,  and  to  be  preferred,  especi- 
ally in  such  composition  as  includes  much  action  :  but  every  great 
poet  must  inevitably  innovate  upon  the  example  of  his  predecessors 
in  the  exact  structure  of  his  peculiar  versification.  The  distinction 
between  poets  and  prose  writers  is  a  vulgar  error.  The  distinc- 
tion between  philosophers  and  poets  has  been  anticipated.  Plato 
was  essentially  a  poet  — the  truth  and  splendour  of  his  imagery, 


402  SHELLEY 

and  the  melody  of  his  language,  are  the  most  intense  that  it  is 
possible  to  conceive.  He  rejected  the  measure  of  the  epic,  dramatic, 
and  lyrical  forms,  because  he  sought  to  kindle  a  harmony  in  thoughts 
divested  of  shape  and  action,  and  he  forbore  to  invent  any  regular 
plan  of  rhythm  which  would  include,  under  determinate  forms,  the 
varied  pauses  of  his  style.  Cicero  sought  to  imitate  the  cadence 
of  his  periods,  but  with  little  success.  Lord  Bacon  was  a  poet.* 
His  language  has  a  sweet  and  majestic  rhythm,  which  satisfies  the 
sense,  no  less  than  the  almost  superhuman  wisdom  of  his  philoso- 
phy satisfies  the  intellect;  it  is  a  strain  which  distends,  and  then 
bursts  the  circumference  of  the  reader's  mind,  and  pours  itself 
forth  together  with  it  into  the  universal  element  with  which  it  has 
perpetual  sympathy.  All  the  authors  of  revolutions  in  opinion 
are  not  only  necessarily  poets  as  they  are  inventors,  nor  even  as 
their  words  unveil  the  permanent  analogy  of  things  by  images 
which  participate  in  the  life  of  truth ;  but  as  their  periods  are  har- 
monious and  rhythmical,  and  contain  in  themselves  the  elements 
of  verse;  being* the  echo  of  the  eternal  music.  Nor  are  those 
supreme  poets,  who  have  employed  traditional  forms  of  rhythm  on 
account  of  the  form  and  action  of  their  subjects,  less  capable  of 
perceiving  and  teaching  the  truth  of  things,  than  those  who  have 
omitted  that  form.  Shakespeare,  Dante,  and  Milton  (to  confine 
ourselves  to  modern  writers)  are  philosophers  of  the  very  loftiest 
power. 

A  poem  is  the  very  image  of  life  expressed  in  its  eternal 
truth.  There  is  this  difference  between  a  story  and  a  poem,  that 
a  story  is  a  catalogue  of  detached  facts,  which  have  no  other  con- 
nection than  time,  place,  circumstance,  cause  and  effect ;  the  other 
is  the  creation  of  actions  according  to  the  unchangeable  forms  of 
human  nature,  as  existing  in  the  mind  of  the  Creator,  which  is  itself 
the  image  of  all  other  minds.  The  one  is  partial,  and  applies  only 
to  a  definite  period  of  time,  and  a  certain  combination  of  events 
which  can  never  again  recur ;  the  other  is  universal,  and  contains 
within  itself  the  germ  of  a  relation  to  whatever  motions  or  actions 
have  place  in  the  possible  varieties  of  human  nature.  Time,  which 
destroys  the  beauty  and  the  use  of  the  story  of  particular  facts, 
*  See  the  Filum  Labyrinthi,  and  the  Essay  on  Death  particularly. 


DEFENCE  OF   POETRY  403 

stripped  of  the  poetry  which  should  invest  them,  augments  that  of 
poetry,  and  for  ever  develops  new  and  wonderful  applications  of  the 
eternal  truth  which  it  contains.  Hence  epitomes  have  been  called 
the  moths  of  just  history;  they  eat  out  the  poetry  of  it.  A  story 
of  particular  facts  is  as  a  mirror  which  obscures  and  distorts  that 
which  should  be  beautiful :  poetry  is  a  mirror  which  makes  beauti- 
ful that  which  is  distorted. 

The  parts  of  a  composition  may  be  poetical,  without  the  composi- 
tion as  a  whole  being  a  poem.  A  single  sentence  may  be  consid- 
ered as  a  whole,  though  it  may  be  found  in  the  midst  of  a  series  of 
unassimilated  portions ;  a  single  word  even  may  be  a  spark  of  inex- 
tinguishable thought.  And  thus  all  the  great  historians,  Herodo- 
tus, Plutarch,  Livy,  were  poets ;  and  although  the  plan  of  these 
writers,  especially  that  of  Livy,  restrained  them  from  developing 
this  faculty  in  its  highest  degree,  they  made  copious  and  ample 
amends  for  their  subjection  by  filling  all  the  interstices  of  their 
subjects  with  living  images. 

The  functions  of  the  poetical  faculty  are  twofold :  by  one  it 
creates  new  materials  of  knowledge,  and  power,  and  pleasure  ;  by 
the  other  it  engenders  in  the  mind  a  desire  to  reproduce  and 
arrange  them  according  to  a  certain  rhythm  and  order  which  may 
be  called  the  beautiful  and  the  good.  The  cultivation  of  poetry  is 
never  more  to  be  desired  than  at  periods  when,  from  an  excess 
of  the  selfish  and  calculating  principle,  the  accumulation  of  the 
materials  of  external  life  exceeds  the  quantity  of  the  power  of 
assimilating  them  to  the  internal  laws  of  human  nature.  The  body 
has  then  become  too  unwieldy  for  that  which  animates  it. 

Poetry  is  indeed  something  divine.  It  is  at  once  the  centre  and 
circumference  of  knowledge ;  it  is  that  which  comprehends  all 
science,  and  that  to  which  all  science  must  be  referred.  It  is  at 
the  same  time  the  root  and  blossom  of  all  other  systems  of  thought; 
it  is  that  from  which  all  spring,  and  that  which  adorns  all ;  and 
that  which,  if  blighted,  denies  the  fruit  and  the  seed,  and  with- 
holds from  the  barren  world  the  nourishment  and  the  succession  of 
the  scions  of  the  tree  of  life.  It  is  the  perfect  and  consummate  sur- 
face and  bloom  of  all  things ;  it  is  as  the  odour  and  the  colour  of 


404  SHELLEY 

the  rose  to  the  texture  of  the  elements  which  compose  it,  as  the 
form  and  splendour  of  unfaded  beauty  to  the  secrets  of  anatomy 
and  corruption.  What  were  virtue,  love,  patriotism,  friendship  — 
what  were  the  scenery  of  this  beautiful  universe  which  we  inhabit; 
what  were  our  consolations  on  this  side  of  the  grave  —  and  what 
were  our  aspirations  beyond  it,  if  poetry  did  not  ascend  to  bring 
light  and  fire  from  those  eternal  regions  where  the  owl-winged 
faculty  of  calculation  dare  not  ever  soar  ?  Poetry  is  not  like  rea- 
soning, a  power  to  be  exerted  according  to  the  determination  of  the 
will.  A  man  cannot  say,  "  I  will  compose  poetry."  The  greatest 
poet  even  cannot  say  it ;  for  the  mind  in  creation  is  as  a  fading  coal, 
which  some  invisible  influence,  like  an  inconstant  wind,  awakens 
to  transitory  brightness ;  this  power  arises  from  within,  like  the 
colour  of  a  flower  which  fades  and  changes  as  it  is  developed, 
and  the  conscious  portions  of  our  natures  are  unprophetic  either 
of  its  approach  or  its  departure.  Could  this  influence  be  dur- 
able in  its  original  purity  and  force,  it  is  impossible  to  predict 
the  greatness  of  the  results  ;  but  when  composition  begins,  inspira- 
tion is  already  on  the  decline,  and  the  most  glorious  poetry  that 
has  ever  been  communicated  to  the  world  is  probably  a  feeble 
shadow  of  the  original  conceptions  of  the  poet.  I  appeal  to  the 
greatest  poets  of  the  present  day  whether  it  is  not  an  error  to 
assert  that  the  finest  passages  of  poetry  are  produced  by  labour 
and  study.  The  toil  and  the  delay  recommended  by  critics  can  be 
justly  interpreted  to  mean  no  more  than  a  carefu^  observation  of 
the  inspired  moments,  and  an  artificial  connection  of  the  spaces 
between  their  suggestions  by  the  intermixture  of  conventional 
expressions ;  a  necessity  only  imposed  by  the  limitedness  of  the 
poetical  faculty  itself  :  for  Milton  conceived  the  Paradise  Lost  as  a 
whole  before  he  executed  it  in  portions.  We  have  his  own  author- 
ity also  for  the  muse  having  "  dictated  "  to  him  the  "  unpremed- 
itated song."  And  let  this  be  an  answer  to  those  who  would  allege 
the  fifty-six  various  readings  of  the  first  line  of  the  Orlando  Furi- 
oso.  Compositions  so  produced  are  to  poetry  what  mosaic  is  to 
painting.  This  instinct  and  intuition  of  the  poetical  faculty  is  still 
more  observable  in  the  plastic  and  pictorial  arts ;  a  great  statue 
or  picture  grows  under  the  power  of  the  artist  as  a  child  in  the 


DEFENCE  OF   POETRY  405 

mother's  womb;  and  the  very  mind  which  directs  the  hands  in 
formation  is  incapable  of  accounting  to  itself  for  the  origin,  the 
gradations,  or  the  media  of  the  process. 

Poetry  is  the  record  of  the  best  and  happiest  moments  of  the 
happiest  and  best  minds.  We  are  aware  of  evanescent  visitations 
of  thought  and  feelings  sometimes  associated  with  place  or  person, 
sometimes  regarding  our  own  mind  alone,  and  always  arising 
unforeseen  and  departing  unbidden,  but  elevating  and  delightful 
beyond  all  expression:  so  that  even  in  the  desire  and  the  regret 
they  leave,  there  cannot  but  be  pleasure,  participating  as  it  does  in 
the  nature  of  its  object.  It  is,  as  it  were,  the  interpenetration 
of  a  diviner  nature  through  our  own ;  but  its  footsteps  are  like 
those  of  a  wind  over  the  sea,  which  the  coming  calm  erases,  and 
whose  traces  remain  only  as  on  ttie  wrinkled  sand  which  paves  it. 
These  and  corresponding  conditions  of  being  are  experienced  prin- 
cipally by  those  of  the  most  delicate  sensibility  and  the  most 
enlarged  imagination ;  and  the  state  of  mind  produced  by  them  is 
at  war  with  every  base  desire.  The  enthusiasm  of  virtue,  love, 
patriotism,  and  friendship  is  essentially  linked  with  such  emotions ; 
and  whilst  they  last,  self  appears  as  what  it  is,  an  atom  to  a  uni- 
verse. Poets  are  not  only  subject  to  these  experiences  as  spirits 
of  the  most  refined  organization,  but  they  can  colour  all  that  they 
combine  with  the  evanescent  hues  of  this  ethereal  world ;  a  word, 
a  trait  in  the  representation  of  a  scene  or  a  passion  will  touch  the 
enchanted  chord,  and  reanimate,  in  those  who  have  ever  experi- 
enced these  emotions,  the  sleeping,  the  cold,  the  buried  image  of 
the  past.  Poetry  thus  makes  immortal  all  that  is  best  and  most 
beautiful  in  the  world ;  it  arrests  the  vanishing  apparitions  which 
haunt  the  interlunations  of  life,  and  veiling  them,  or  in  language 
or  in  form,  sends  them  forth  among  mankind,  bearing  sweet  news 
of  kindred  joy  to  those  with  whom  their  sisters  abide  —  abide, 
because  there  is  no  portal  of  expression  from  the  caverns  of  the 
spirit  which  they  inhabit  into  the  universe  of  things.  Poetry 
redeems  from  decay  the  visitations  of  the  divinity  in  man. 

Poetry  turns  all  things  to  loveliness ;  it  exalts  the  beauty  of  that 
which  is  most  beautiful,  and  it  adds  beauty  to  that  which  is  most 
deformed;  it  marries  exultation  and  horror,  grief  and  pleasure, 


406  SHELLEY 

eternity  and  change;  it  subdues  to  union  under  its  light  yoke 
all  irreconcilable  things.  It  transmutes  all  that  it  touches,  and 
every  form  moving  within  the  radiance  of  its  presence  is  changed 
by  wondrous  sympathy  to  an  incarnation  of  the  spirit  which  it 
breathes :  its  secret  alchemy  turns  to  potable  gold  the  poisonous 
waters  which  flow  from  death  through  life;  it  strips  the  veil  of 
familiarity  from  the  world,  and  lays  bare  the  naked  and  sleeping 
beauty,  which  is  the  spirit  of  its  forms. 

All  things  exist  as  they  are  perceived :  at  least  in  relation  to  the 
percipient.  "  The  mind  is  its  own  place,  and  of  itself  can  make  a 
heaven  of  hell,  a  hell  of  heaven."  But  poetry  defeats  the  curse 
which  binds  us  to  be  subjected  to  the  accident  of  surrounding 
impressions.  And  whether  it  spreads  its  own  figured  curtain,  or 
withdraws  life's  dark  veil  from  before  the  scene  of  things,  it 
equally  creates  for  us  a  being  within  our  being.  It  makes  us  the 
inhabitants  of  a  world  to  which  the  familiar  world  is  a  chaos.  It 
reproduces  the  common  universe  of  which  we  are  portions  and 
percipients,  and  it  purges  from  our  inward  sight  the  film  of  famil- 
iarity which  obscures  from  us  the  wonder  of  our  being.  It  compels 
us  to  feel  that  which  we  perceive,  and  to  imagine  that  which  we 
know.  It  creates  anew  the  universe,  after  it  has  been  annihilated 
in  our  minds  by  the  recurrence  of  impressions  blunted  by  reitera- 
tion. It  justifies  the  bold  and  true  words  of  Tasso  —  Non  merita 
nome  di  creators,  se  non  Iddio  ed  il  Poeta. 

A  poet,  as  lie  is  the  author  to  others  of  the  highest  wisdom, 
pleasure,  virtue,  and  glory,  so  he  ought  personally  to  be  the  happi- 
est, the  best,  the  wisest,  and  the  most  illustrious  of  men.  As  to 
his  glory,  let  time  be  challenged  to  declare  whether  the  fame  of  any 
other  institutor  of  human  life  be  comparable  to  that  of  a  poet. 
That  he  is  the  wisest,  the  happiest,  and  the  best,  inasmuch  as  he  is 
a  poet,  is  equally  incontrovertible  :  the  greatest  poets  have  been 
men  of  the  most  spotless  virtue,  of  the  most  consummate  prudence, 
and,  if  we  would  look  into  the  interior  of  their  lives,  the  most 
fortunate  of  men :  and  the  exceptions,  as  they  regard  those  who 
possessed  the  poetic  faculty  in  a  high  yet  inferior  degree,  will  be 
found  on  consideration  to  confine  rather  than  destroy  the  rule. 
Let  us  for  a  moment  stoop  to  the  arbitration  of  popular  breath, 


DEFENCE   OF  POETRY  407 

and  usurping  and  uniting  in  our  own  persons  the  incompatible 
characters  of  accuser,  witness,  judge,  and  executioner,  let  us  decide, 
without  trial,  testimony,  or  form,  that  certain  motives  of  those  who 
are  "  there  sitting  where  we  dare  not  soar,"  are  reprehensible. 
Let  us  assume  that  Homer  was  a  drunkard,  that  Virgil  was  a  flat- 
terer, that  Horace  was  a  coward,  that  Tasso  was  a  madman,  that 
Lord  Bacon  was  a  peculator,  that  Raphael  was  a  libertine,  that 
Spenser  was  a  poet-laureate.  It  is  inconsistent  with  this  division 
of  our  subject  to  cite  living  poets,  but  posterity  has  done  ample 
justice  to  the  great  names  now  referred  to.  Their  errors  have 
been  weighed  and  found  to  have  been  dust  in  the  balance ;  if  their 
sins  "were  as  scarlet,  they  are  now  white  as  snow";  they  have 
been  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  mediator  and  redeemer,  Time. 
Observe  in  what  a  ludicrous  chaos  the  imputations  of  real  or  fic- 
titious crime  have  been  confused  in  the  contemporary  calumnies 
against  poetry  and  poets;  consider  how  little  is,  as  it  appears  — 
or  appears,  as  it  is ;  look  to  your  own  motives,  and  judge  not,  lest 
ye  be  judged. 

Poetry,  as  has  been  said,  differs  in  this  respect  from  logic,  that 
it  is  not  subject  to  the  control  of  the  active  powers  of  the  mind, 
and  that  its  birth  and  recurrence  have  no  necessary  connection 
with  the  consciousness  or  will.  It  is  presumptuous  to  determine 
that  these  are  the  necessary  conditions  of  all  mental  causation, 
when  mental  effects  are  experienced  unsusceptible  of  being  referred 
to  them.  The  frequent  recurrence  of  the  poetical  power,  it  is 
obvious  to  suppose,  may  produce  in  the  mind  a  habit  of  order  and 
harmony  correlative  with  its  own  nature  and  with  its  effects  upon 
other  minds.  But  in  the  intervals  of  inspiration,  and  they  may 
be  frequent  without  being  durable,  a  poet  becomes  a  man,  and  is 
abandoned  to  the  sudden  reflux  of  the  influences  under  which  others 
habitually  live.  But  as  he  is  more  delicately  organized  than  other 
men,  and  sensible  to  pain  and  pleasure,  both  his  own  and  that  of 
others,  in  a  degree  unknown  to  them,  he  will  avoid  the  one  and  pur- 
sue the  other  with  an  ardour  proportioned  to  this  difference.  And 
he  renders  himself  obnoxious  to  calumny  when  he  neglects  to  observe 
the  circumstances  under  which  these  objects  of  universal  pursuit 
and  flight  have  disguised  themselves  in  one  another's  garments. 


408  SHELLEY 

But  there  is  nothing  necessarily  evil  in  this  error,  and  thus 
cruelty,  envy,  revenge,  avarice,  and  the  passions  purely  evil  have 
never  formed  any  portion  of  the  popular  imputations  on  the  lives 
of  poets. 

I  have  thought  it  most  favourable  to  the  cause  of  truth  to  set 
down  these  remarks  according  to  the  order  in  which  they  were 
suggested  to  my  mind  by  a  consideration  of  the  subject  itself, 
instead  of  observing  the  formality  of  a  polemical  reply  ;  but  if  the 
view  which  they  contain  be  just,  they  will  be  found  to  involve  a 
refutation  of  the  argue  rs  against  poetry,  so  far  at  least  as  regards 
the  first  division  of  the  subject.  I  can  readily  conjecture  what 
should  have  moved  the  gall  of  some  learned  and  intelligent  writers 
who  quarrel  with  certain  versifiers ;  I  confess  myself,  like  them, 
unwilling  to  be  stunned  by  the  Theseids  of  the  hoarse  Codri  of 
the  day.  Bavius  and  Maevius  undoubtedly  are,  as  they  ever  were, 
insufferable  persons.  But  it  belongs  to  a  philosophical  critic  to 
distinguish  rather  than  confound. 

The  first  part  of  these  remarks  has  related  to  poetry  in  its  ele- 
ments and  principles  ;  and  it  has  been  shown,  as  well  as  the  narrow 
limits  assigned  them  would  permit,  that  what  is  called  poetry,  in  a 
restricted  sense,  has  a  common  source  with  all  other  forms  of  order 
and  of  beauty,  according  to  which  tb.3  materials  of  human  life  are 
susceptible  of  being  arranged,  and  Avhich  is  poetry  in  an  universal 
sense. 

The  second  part1  will  have  for  its  object  an  application  of  these 
principles  to  the  present  state  of  the  cultivation  of  poetry,  and  a 
defence  of  the  attempt  to  idealize  the  modern  forms  of  manners 
and  opinions,  and  compel  them  into  a  subordination  to  the  imagin- 
ative and  creative  faculty.  For  the  literature  of  England,  an 
energetic  development  of  which  has  ever  preceded  or  accompanied 
a  great  and  free  development  of  the  national  will,  has  arisen,  as  it 
were,  from  a  new  birth.  In  spite  of  the  low-thoughted  envy 
which  would  undervalue  contemporary  merit,  our  own  will  be  a 
memorable  age  in  intellectual  achievements,  and  we  live  among 
such  philosophers  and  poets  as  surpass  beyond  comparison  any 
who  have  appeared  since  the  last  national  struggle  for  civil  and 
1  This  Shelley  did  not  live  to  write. 


DEFENCE  OF  POETRY  409 

religious  liberty.  The  most  unfailing  herald,  companion,  and  fol- 
lower of  the  awakening  of  a  great  people  to  work  a  beneficial  change 
in  opinion  or  institution  is  poetry.  At  such  periods  there  is  an 
accumulation  of  the  power  of  communicating  and  receiving  intense 
and  impassioned  conceptions  respecting  men  and  nature.  The 
persons  in  whom  this  power  resides  may  often,  as  far  as  regards 
many  portions  of  their  nature,  have  little  apparent  correspondence 
with  that  spirit  of  good  of  which  they  are  the  ministers.  But  even 
whilst  they  deny  and  abjure,  they  are  yet  compelled  to  serve,  the 
power  which  is  seated  on  the  throne  of  their  own  soul.  It  is 
impossible  to  read  the  compositions  of  the  most  celebrated  writers 
of  the  present  day  without  being  startled  with  the  electric  life 
which  burns  within  their  words.  They  measure  the  circumference 
and  sound  the  depths  of  human  nature  with  a  comprehensive  and 
all-penetrating  spirit,  and  they  are  themselves  perhaps  the  most 
sincerely  astonished  at  its  manifestations  ;  for  it  is  less  their  spirit 
than  the  spirit  of  the  age.  Poets  are  the  hierophants  of  an  unap- 
prehended  inspiration ;  the  mirrors  of  the  gigantic  shadows  which 
futurity  casts  upon  the  present ;  the  words  which  express  what 
they  understand  not ;  the  trumpets  which  sing  to  battle,  and  feel 
not  what  they  inspire ;  the  influence  which  is  moved  not,  but  moves. 
Poets  are  the  unacknowledged  legislators  of  the  world. 


XXX 

SAINTE-BEUVE    AXD   VICTOR   HUGO 

(The  influence  of  Sainte-Beuve,  which  has  been  enormous  both  directly 
and  indirectly,  was  exerted  rather  by  way  of  attitude  and  temperament 
than  in  formulated  doctrines.  The  following  passages,  however,  may  ex- 
hibit something  of  its  mode  of  exercise.  The  great  poet  who  was  once  his 
friend  had,  on  the  other  hand,  a  temperament  as  apparently  uncritical  as 
that  of  any  man  who  ever  lived ;  yet  Shenstone's  aphorism  (r.  sup.,  p.  256) 
is  justified  of  him  also.  The  short  question  contained  in  the  quotation 
given  below  from  the  Preface  to  Les  Orientates  (L'ouvrage  est-il  bon  ou  est-il 
mauvais  ?)  practically  "  surprises  by  itself  "  the  whole  doctrine  of  modern, 
as  opposed  to  ancient,  criticism  —  put,  of  course,  in  a  characteristically 
imperious  and  one-sided  manner.  And  the  passage,  brief  as  it  is,  cuts 
forward  as  mightily  at  the  Arnoldian  "  All  depends  upon  the  subject "  as 
backward  at  the  idea,  then  but  recently  championed  by  La  Harpe,  that 
even  admitted  "beauty"  is  not  enough  —  that  beauty  has  no  business  to 
be  beautiful  "monstrously"  —  out  of  the  rules  —  independently  of  the 
"  leading-strings  and  handcuffs  and  gags."  But  observe  that  Hugo's  doc- 
trine is  not  yet  the  later  exaggeration  of  "Art  for  art  only,"  though  it  may 
lead  thereto.  The  glove  thrown  down  is  for  a  more  catholic  dogma, — 
Treatment  and  the  Event  against  Subject  and  Rule.) 

SAINTE-BEUVE.      THOUGHTS    ON    CRITICISM    AND    CRITICS    FROM 
CAUSERIES  DU  LUNDI  AND  NOUVEAUX  LUNDIS  (1849-1869) 

A.     DOGMATIC    AND   UNDOGMATIC  CRITICISM 

(This  passage  is  all  the  more  interesting  because  Villemain  was  undoubt- 
edly Sainte-Beuve's  own  master,  so  far  as  he  had  any.) 

In  the  kind  of  literary  sketch,  properly  so  called,  in  which  he 

'excels,  and  particularly  in  the  sketch  which  he  has  given  of  the 

18th  century,  I  shall  only  take  the  liberty  of  noting  one  thing,  of 

410 


DOGMATIC   AND  UNDOGMATIC   CRITICISM  411 

bringing  out  one  characteristic  trait,  impossible  to  omit  in  speak- 
ing of  the  famous  critic  who  has  been  the  master  of  our  age.  The 
property  of  critics  in  general,  as  their  very  name  sufficiently  shows, 
is  to  judge  —  at  need  to  give  trenchant  and  peremptory  judg- 
ment. Take  all  the  eminent  men  to  whom  this  title  of  critic  has 
been  hitherto  applied — Malherbe,  Boileau  (both  critics  under  the 
guise  of  poets) ;  Dr.  Johnson  in  England ;  La  Harpe  with  us ;  even 
M.  de  Fontanes.1  All  these  men,  of  authority  in  their  day,  judged 
matters  of  taste  with  vivacity,  with  too  exclusive  peremptoriness 
perhaps,  but  at  any  rate  with  a  clear,  decisive  pronouncement  of 
opinion,  and  without  appeal.  Boileau  "  hated  a  silly  book,"  and 
could  not  help  satirizing  it :  while,  on  the  other  hand,  when  he 
had  to  do  with  work  which  he  thought  fine,  he  took  its  side 
without  hesitation  and  punished  fools  for  their  attacks  on  it  at 
every  opportunity.  Fontanes  did  the  same  thing  in  his  own  way 
—  he  was  an  impassioned  avenger  of  Les  Martyrs?  so  violently 
attacked  at  its  first  appearance,  and  passed  the  word  (as  it  were) 
to  admire  it. 

Since  then  things  have  changed  greatly  :  criticism  has  turned 
historical,  and  as  it  were  eclectic  in  its  judgments.  It  has  set 
forth  much,  it  has  understood  everything,3  but  it  has  come  to  few 
conclusions.  M.  Villemain  did  more  than  any  one  to  enter  it,  and 
keep  it,  in  this  way,  which  in  many  respects  is  ampler  and  more 
fertile,  but  which  also  oftentimes,  by  the  very  fact  of  its  ampli- 
tude, comes  to  no  definite  end.  Thus,  in  this  Literary  Sketch  of 
the  18th  Century,  when  he  has  to  judge  the  Henriade  he  gives  all 
the  good  reasons  for  not  admiring  it,  for  not  giving  it  any  rank  at 
all  among  the  epics  which  live.  But  when  it  comes  to  a  formal 
conclusion,  he  recoils,  he  flinches.  The  judge  leaves  his  bench,  and, 
in  half  a  dozen  passages  of  sheer  evasion,  he  tries  to  hope  that 

1  Fontanes  (1757-1821)  — now  much  forgotten  out  of  France,  except  by  special 
students  —  was  a  poet  as  poets  went  then,  a  considerable  rhetorician,  and  a  not 
inconsiderable  critic.      He  had  political  influence  under  the  Empire  and  the 
Restoration,  and  used  it  for  literature  and  learning.     Sainte-Beuve  had  rather 
a  fancy  for  him. 

2  Chateaubriand's  rococo-Romantic  romance  —  a  real  force  in  its  time. 

8  Sainte-Beuve  is  almost  too  polite.  Let  our  modesty  substitute  "tried  to 
understand." 


412  SAINTE-BEUVE 

"the  Henri ade  will  traverse  the  ages,"  that "  after  all,  it  is  a  durable 
work,"  that  it  holds  "a  place  to  itself,"  a  place  of  the  first  after 
really  original  works.  He  comes  back  to  it  four  or  five  times  over, 
instead  of  settling  the  question  for  good  and  once  for  all,  as  his 
own  arguments  entitled  him  to  do.  This  is  a  weak  spot  in  a  mind 
of  rare  distinction.  His  judgments,  exquisite  at  the  outset,  are 
hard  to  grasp  at  the  conclusion  —  you  must,  as  it  were,  catch  them 
flying  in  their  state  of  charming  epigram,  or  disengage  them  for 
yourself  from  the  opulent  sinuosities  in  which  he  sets  them 
forth.  This  is  specially  the  case  when  he  deals  with  the  living. 
His  delicacy  redoubles  —  to  the  point  of  almost  shocking  mine.  He 
loves  to  proceed  by  understandings,  by  allusions.  In  his  excellent 
annual  reports  to  the  Academy,  good  judges,  who  can  seize  all  the 
points,  find  nothing  to  desire :  if  we  look  to  those  who  are  not 
judges  —  to  the  public  —  these  judgments  want  stronger  relief. 

C.  L.  i.  112-114. 


B.     THE   "OLD  MOONS"   OF   CRITICISM 

(There  is  no  passage  in  Sainte-Beuve  (there  are  few  passages  in  any 
critic)  of  more  far-reaching  wisdom  than  this.  The  truth  repeats  itself 
incessantly ;  and  it  is  probably  a  reluctant  and  indignant  sense  of  it  which 
makes  "  companies  of  warm  young  men,"  as  Dryden  puts  it  (v.  sup.,  p.  164), 
affect  disdain  of  Sainte-Beuve  himself.) 

The  first  condition  of  properly  appreciating  old  critics  and  their 
journey-work,  is  to  put  oneself  back  in  situation,  and  to  recon- 
struct oneself  in  ideas,  so  as  to  gain  the  spirit  of  their  time.  The 
essential  thing  for  active  and  practical  criticism,  such  as  that  of 
which  we  speak,  is  not  so  much  profound  knowledge  of  things  as  a 
lively  feeling  for  them,  a  power  of  inspiring  taste  for  them,  and  of 
surrounding  oneself  with  its  atmosphere.  Perhaps,  from  1800 
to  1814,1  men  may  have  been  in  many  respects  less  learned,  less 
erudite,  than  to-day :  but,  on  the  whole,  people  paid  more  attention 
to  literary  questions,  and  took  more  interest  in  them.  Criticism, 
by  itself,  does  nothing  and  can  do  nothing.  The  best  of  it  can  act 

1  Or,  for  that  matter,  from  abed  to  wxyz. 


ELUSIVENESS  OF   THE  "CLASSICAL"   QUALITY       413 

only  in  concert,  and  almost  in  collaboration,  with  public  feeling. 
I  shall  venture  to*  say  that  the  critic  is  only  the  secretary  of  the 
public  —  though  a  secretary  who  does  not  wait  to  be  dictated  to,  but 
each  morning  divines  and  redacts  the  general  opinion.  Even  when 
he  has  actually  expressed  the  thought  which  everybody  has  (or 
would  like  to  have),  a  great  and  living  part  of  his  allusions,  of  his 
conclusions,  and  of  their  consequences,  remains  in  the  wits  of  his 
readers.  I  maintain  that  in  reading  over  old  papers  and  their  most 
successful  critiques  we  never  find  more  than  half  the  article  in 
print  —  the  other  was  written  only  in  the  reader's  mind.  You  are 
to  suppose  a  printed  sheet  of  which  we  only  read  one  side  —  the 
other  has  disappeared,  is  blank.  And  this  other  side,  which  would 
complete  the  thing,  is  the  disposition  of  the  public  at  the  time,  the 
office  or  part  of  editor  which  it  supplied,  and  which  sometimes  was 
not  the  least  intelligent  or  effectual  part.  To  be  just,  we  must  effect 
a  restoration  of  this  disposition  now,  when  we  judge  these  old  critics, 
our  forerunners.  •  0 


C.     THE   ELUSIVENESS   OF   THE    "CLASSICAL"   QUALITY 

(The  whole  of  the  causerie  "  Qu'est-ce  qu'un  Classique  "  (Oct.  21,  1850), 
from  which  this  is  taken,  should  be  read,  marked,  learnt,  and  inwardly 
digested  by  any  one  who  wishes  to  acquire  the  ethos  of  the  critic.  Sainte- 
Beuve  is  too  seldom  thus  general :  or  rather,  it  is  one  of  his  greatest  merits 
that  he  generalizes  thus  seldom.  He  has  just  given  an  admirable  sketch 
of  the  "classics"  of  all  nations.) 

The  point  of  importance  to-day  seems  to  me  to  be  the  mainten- 
ance of  the  idea,  and  the  worship,  of  the  "  Classic,"  while  expand- 
ing both.  There  is  no  receipt  for  making  classics  :  that  point 
might  at  last  be  recognized  as  proved.  To  believe  that  by  imitat- 
ing certain  qualities  of  purity,  sobriety,  correctness,  elegance,  one 
will,  independently  of  idiosyncrasy  and  inspiration,  become  a  classic, 
is  to  believe  that  after  Racine  the  father  there  is  room  for  Kacine 
the  son  —  for  that  dull  respectability  which  is,  in  poetry,  the  worst 
thing  of  all.  Nay,  more :  it  is  not  well  to  appear,  too  soon  and  too 
much  offhand,  a  classic  to  one's  contemporaries.  Fontanes,  in  his 


414  SAINTE-BEUVE 

day,  seemed  to  his  friends  to  be  purely  and  simply  classical :  see 
how  pale  he  looks  to  us  at  only  five  and  twenty  years'  distance  ! 
How  many  are  there  of  these  premature  classics,  who  cannot  hold, 
and  are  such  but  for  a  day  !  You  look  back,  some  fine  morning, 
and  are  quite  astonished  to  see  them  no  more  in  pride  of  place 
behind  you.  There  was  only  enough  of  them  (as  Madame  de 
Sevigne  would  say  pleasantly)  "for  a  sun's  breakfast."  In  the 
way  of  classics  the  most  unexpected  are  ever  the  best  and  greatest : 
ask,  if  you  doubt  it,  the  true  men  of  genius  who  were  really  born 
immortal  and  to  flourish  perpetually.  The  least  classical  in  appear- 
ance of  the  four  great  poets  of  Louis  XIV's  time  was  Moliere.  He 
was  much  more  applauded  than  esteemed :  he  was  relished,  but  with- 
out being  really  appreciated.  The  least  classic  after  him  seemed 
to  be  La  Fontaine  ;  and  see  what,  two  centuries  later,  has  happened 
to  both ! 

The  niece  concludes  with  a  brilliant  plan  of  a  new  "Temple  of  Taste," 
where  "  nothing  is  to  be  sacrificed,  depreciated,  excluded,"  and  the  whole 
principle  is  to  be  that  of  "many  mansions"  —  room  for  Pope,  as  for 
Shakespeare ;  for  Milton,  as  for  Virgil.  £,  -r  •  ••  ^  KQ 


D.     CRITICISM    ACCORDING   TO   STANDARD 

(M.  De'sire'  Nisard,  who  is  the  direct  subject  of  the  following  remarks, 
was  the  first  very  considerable  critic  who  rallied  "  Classicism  "  after  the 
rout  of  1830,  and  gave  it  a  new  model.  Sainte-Beuve  explains  what  that 
model  was,  and,  in  his  usual  masterly  way,  indicates  its  advantages  and 
dangers.) 

Having  to  write  on  French  Literature,  and  to  follow  this  in  its 
development  across  the  ages,  he  has  asked  himself,  at  the  very  out- 
set, "  What  is  the  French  Genius  ?  "  He  has  made  himself  an  idea 
of  this  to  begin  with ;  he  has  worked  up  a  kind  of  model  of  it  from 
the  most  admired  masters,  the  critics  most  in  honour  and  credit ; 
he  has  presented  to  French  readers  an  altogether  satisfactory  por- 
trait of  this  French  Genius  seen  on  its  best  sides  and  in  its  best 
lights.  ...  If  he  perhaps  flatters  this  Genius  in  his  general  defini- 
tion of  it,  he  is  not  in  the  least  flattering  to  particular  authors. 


THE   CRITICISM   OF   RESEARCH  415 

On  the  contrary,  by  comparing  and  contrasting  them  indefatigably 
with  this  first  ideal,  he  makes  them  undergo  the  most  dangerous  of 
tests,  the  hardest  of  examinations.  More  than  one,  even  of  the  most 
famous,  leaves  a  part  of  himself  —  the  fleeting,  false,  ephemeral 
part  —  behind.  And,  as  after  a  judgment  of  Minos  or  Rhada- 
manthus,  only  the  immortal  soul,  the  genius  in  whatsoever  degree  it 
has  possessed  goodness,  purity,  lasting  and  moral  quality  and  whole- 
someness  —  conformity  and  community  with  that  abstract  French 
Genius  which  is  one  of  the  finest  representatives  of  human  art  — 
only  this  survives,  disengages  itself,  and  triumphs. 

This  is  the  ideal  of  the  method.  But  has  it  always  been  justly 
applied?  Could  it  possibly  be  so?  Nature  is  full  of  variety — of 
moulds  which  differ :  the  forms  of  talent  are  infinite.  Why,  0 
Critic !  insist  on  one  pattern  only  ?  I  know,  of  course,  that  your 
pattern  is  more  diverse  and  more  varied  than  it  seems  at  first  — 
that,  your  model  French  Genius  is  manifold,  complex,  as  elastic  as 
this  genius  itself.  But  it  is  not  less  true  that  your  History  becomes 
of  necessity  a  perpetual  Trial-at-Bar.  The  critic-historian  never 
lets  himself  go  with  the  current  of  each  writer's  nature,  as  he  meets 
it ;  he  recalls  it  peremptorily  to  his  own  model ;  he  forces  more 
than  one  wandering  stream  back  into  the  artificial  channel  which 
he  has  dug  beforehand.  If  there  are  rebel  branches,  they  are  cut 
off.  The  French  genius,  in  a  state  of  Platonic  and  archetypal 
ideality,  is  supposed  to  preside  in  person  over  this  History ;  accord- 
ing as  it  recognizes  itself  more  or  less  in  each  passing  writer,  it 
distributes  approval  or  condemnation,  promotion  or  disgrace. 

C.  L.  xv.  209-211. 


E.     THE    CRITICISM   OF   RESEARCH 

(The  causerie  (or  rather  lecture)  from  which  this  is  taken  ranks  with 
"  What  is  a  Classic?"  Its  full  subject  is  "Tradition  in  Literature"  and 
it  was  delivered  at  the  Ecole  Normale  in  April,  1858.) 

Criticism  and  learning,  guided  by  the  historic  spirit,  have  given 
themselves,  of  late  years,  up  to  a  mighty  and  valuable  labour,  the 
importance  and  the  value  of  which  I  shall  take  good  care  not  to 


416  SAINTE-BEUVE 

belittle.  Men  have-  contracted  the  taste  for  origins:  have  deter- 
mined to  know  everything  at  closer  quarters,  by  means  of  documents 
at  first  hand,  and,  as  far  as  may  be,  unpublished.  .  .  .  There  has 
been  a  fancy  for  penetrating  into  the  inner  sanctum,  the  hearth  and 
bosom,  of  men  eloquent  with  tongue  and  pen ;  and,  by  scrutinizing 
their  papers,  their  autograph  letters,  the  first  editions  of  their  books, 
the  testimonies  of  their  circles  of  acquaintance,  the  journals  of  the 
secretaries 1  who  knew  them  best,  ideas  of  them  have  been  obtained 
which  are  somewhat  different  from,  and  certainly  more  exact  than, 
those  which  were  furnished  by  the  mere  reading  of  their  published 
works.  Men  of  taste  formerly,  in  judging  work  from  the  literary 
point  of  view,  were  a  little  too  lazy,  too  fastidious,  too  much  of 
fine  gentlemen  —  they  were  stopped  by  the  smallest  difficulties  of 
research,  and  recoiled  from  them  as  from  thorns.  Even  professional 
critics,  if  they  were  of  some  pretensions  to  fashion,  did  not  inform 
themselves  sufficiently  beforehand  of  whatsoever  might  assure  to 
their  judgments  complete  exactness  and  truth  ;  we  know  more  than 
they  did,  on  many  points,  in  subjects  with  which  they  have  dealt ; 
we  have  all  the  resources  to  be  desired  at  hand.  .  .  .  This  is  good 
and  advantageous :  but,  at  a  time  when  there  is  too  little  really 
synoptic  and  judicial  criticism,  certain  inconveniences  have  not 
been  slow  to  come  from  these  proceedings ;  and,  if  I  do  not  mis- 
take, they  stare  us  in  the  face  everywhere.  .  .  .  Let  us  encourage 
all  industrious  research :  but  let  us  leave  in  everything  the  crafts- 
mastery  to  talent,  thought,  judgment,  reason,  taste.  .  .  .  When  I 
see  promises  of  "Such  and  such  a  writer,  according  to  unpublished 
documents,"  I  am  a  little  distrustful:  —  I  should  be  quite  as  well 
contented  if  somebody  would,  for  once,  boldly  announce  "  Such  and 
such  a  writer  According  to  Judicious  Ideas  and  Views,  However  Old 
They  May  Be."  c  L  xv  374,377. 

1  Curiously  enough,  no  one  has  suffered  more  from  the  indiscretion  or  treachery 
of  "secretaries"  than  Saiute-Beuve  himself.     I  do  not  refer  to  M.  Troubat. 


THE   CRITICISM  OF  M.  TAINE  417 


F.     THE   CRITICISM   OF   M.  TAINE 

(This  passage  is  an  instance,  not  only  of  the  critic's  supreme  acuteness 
and  good  sense,  but  of  that  quality  which  not  very  wise  persons  have  called 
a  certain  treacherousness  in  him ;  it  might  be  better  termed  a  ruthless 
politeness.  It  is  curious  that  the  bludgeoning,  pistolling  ways  of  the  older 
criticism  seem  to  be  less  dreaded  and  resented  than  this  well-bred  and  only 
faintly  ironical  manner,  which,  while  it  is  perfectly  civil  to  the  man,  leaves 
little  or  nothing  of  his  theory  standing.) 

Now  M.  Taine  has  done  nothing  but  try  to  study,  methodically, 
the  profound  differences  which  race,  milieu,  periods  of  time,  cause 
in  the  composition  of  minds,  in  the  form  and  the  bent  of  talents. 
But,  it  will  be  said,  he  does  not  succeed  sufficiently ;  it  is  in  vain 
that  he  gives  us  an  admirable  description  of  the  race  in  its  general 
features  and  fundamental  lines ;  in  vain  that  he  draws  and  throws 
up,  in  his  powerful  pictures,  the  revolutions  of  time  and  the  moral 
atmosphere  that  prevails  at  certain  epochs  of  history ;  in  vain  that 
he  disentangles,  with  address,  the  complication  of  incidents  and 
particular  adventures  in  which  the  life  of  an  individual  is  engaged 
and  as  it  were  en  geared.  Still  something  escapes  him ;  and  what 
escapes  is  the  most  living  part  of  the  man  —  that  which  brings 
it  about  that  of  twenty  men,  or  a  hundred,  or  a  thousand,  sub- 
jected apparently  to  the  same  internal  or  external  conditions,  no 
two  are  alike,  and  that  one  only  of  all  possesses  original  excellence. 
Nay,  more.  He  has  not  attained  to  the  very  spark  of  genius  itself 
in  its  essential  quality,  and  he  does  not  show  it  to  us  in  his  analysis. 
He  has  done  nothing  but  exhibit  and  deduce  for  us,  thread  by  thread, 
fibre  by  fibre,  cell  by  cell,  the  stuff,  the  organism,  the  parenchyma l 
(if  you  like  the  word),  in  which  this  soul,  this  life,  this  spark, 
when  once  it  has  entered,  makes  play,  gives  itself  free  (or  as  it 
were  free)  variation  —  and  triumphs. 

Have  I  not  put  the  objections  well,2  and  do  you  recognize  the 
argument  of  the  wisest  of  the  enemy?  Well,  what  does  it  prove? 

1  The  soft  cellular  tissue  in  plants  and  animals. 

2  "Too  well,"  Taine  might  have  said.     "You  have  overthrown  more  than 
my  enemies." 


418  VICTOR  HUGO 

That  the  problenf  is  difficult  —  that  it  is  perhaps,  in  final  exactness, 
insoluble.  But  is  it  nothing,  I  shall  ask  in  my  turn,  to  state  the 
problem  as  our  author  has  done,  to  come  so  close  to  it,  to  reduce  it 
to  its  simplest  terms,  to  increase  the  facility  of  weighing  and  cal- 
culating all  its  issues  ?  After  every  allowance  is  made  for  general 
and  particular  elements  and  circumstances,  there  remains  place  and 
space  enough  around  men  of  talent  to  give  them  every  freedom  of 
moving  and  turning.  Besides,  however  narrow  the  circle  traced 
round  them,  each  talent,  each  genius,  by  the  very  fact  that  it  is  in 
a  way  a  magician  and  an  enchanter,  has  its  own  secret  for  working 
miracles  and  producing  marvels,  in  this  circle  itself.1  I  do  not  see 
that  M.  Taine,  though  he  may  seem  to  neglect  this  power  too  much, 
absolutely  contests  or  denies  it,  though  he  limits  it,  and,  in  so  doing, 
gives  the  opportunity  of  defining  it  better. 


VICTOR  HUGO.     THE  MAGNA  CHARTA  OF  POETRY 
FROM   THE   PREFACE    TO   LES   ORIENTALES    (1829) 

The  author  of  this  collection  is  not  of  those  who  recognize  the 
right  of  criticism  to  interrogate  the  poet  as  to  his  fancy,  and  to  ask 
him  why  he  has  chosen  such  a  subject,  mixed  such  a  colour,  gath- 
ered from  such  a  tree,  drawn  from  such  a  fountain.  Is  the  work 
good  or  is  it  bad  ?  This  is  the  whole  extent  of  the  critical  province. 
For  the  rest,  give  us  neither  praise  nor  blame  for  the  colours  used, 
but  only  for  the  fashion  of  their  using.  To  take  a  rather  high 
view  of  the  matter,  there  are  in  poetry  no  good  and  no  bad  subjects, 
there  are  only  good  and  bad  poets.  Besides,  everything  is  a  sub- 
ject :  everything  is  dependent  on  art ;  everything  has  the  franchise 
in  poetry.2  Ask  nothing,  then,  about  the  motive  for  taking  the 
subject  —  grave  or  gay,  horrible  or  graceful,  brilliant  or  sombre, 
strange  or  simple  —  rather  than  any  other.  Examine  how  the  work 

1  Note  that  these  "miracles  and  marvels"  make  the  scientific  restrictions 
nugatory  and  superfluous  at  once. 

2  Cf .  (sup. ,  p.  88)  Patrizzi,  of  whom  Victor  Hugo  had  pretty  certainly  never 
heard. 


THE  MAGNA  CHARTA  OF  POETRY  419 

is  done,  not  on  what  or  why.  Beyond  this  the  critic  has  no  right 
of  enquiry,  the  poet  has  no  account  to  render.  Art  has  nothing  to 
do  with  leading-strings,  with  handcuffs,  with  gags :  it  says  "  Go 
your  ways  "  and  lets  you  loose  in  the  great  garden  of  poetry,  where 
there  is  no  forbidden  fruit.  Space  and  time  are  the  domain  of  the 
poet.  Let  him  go  where  he  will  and  do  what  he  pleases :  this  is 
the  Law. 


XXXI 

MATTHEW   ARNOLD 

PREFACE   TO   POEMS    (1853-1854) 

(This,  which  is  almost  the  earliest  finished  and  formal  document  of 
Mr.  Arnold's  criticism,  is  also  one  of  the  best  and  most  complete  expres- 
sions of  it.  It  contains,  explicitly  or  implicitly,  almost  everything  that 
he  said  later  in  substance :  while  its  form  is  his  very  best  —  exhibiting 
his  native  elegance  and  acquired  scholarship,  without  his  later  assumed 
mannerism.) 

ADVERTISEMENT  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION 

I  have  allowed  the  Preface  to  the  former  edition  of  these  Poems 
to  stand  almost  without  change,  because  I  still  believe  it  to  be,  in 
the  main,  true.  I  must  not,  however,  be  supposed  insensible  to 
the  force  of  much  that  has  been  alleged  against  portions  of  it,  or 
unaware  that  it  contains  many  things  incompletely  stated,  many 
things  which  need  limitation.  It  leaves,  too,  untouched  the  ques- 
tion, how  far,  and  in  what  manner,  the  opinions  there  expressed 
respecting  the  choice  of  subjects  apply  to  lyric  poetry ;  that  region 
of  the  poetical  field  which  is  chiefly  cultivated  at  present.  But 
neither  have  I  time  now  to  supply  these  deficiencies,  nor  is  this  the 
proper  place  for  attempting  it  :  on  one  or  two  points  alone  I  wish 
to  offer,  in  the  briefest  possible  way,  some  explanation. 

An  objection  has  been  ably  urged  to  the  classing  together,  as 
subjects  equally  belonging  to  a  past  time,  (Edipus  and  Macbeth. 
And  it  is  no  doubt  true  that  to  Shakespeare,  standing  on  the  verge 
of  the  middle  ages,  the  epoch  of  Macbeth  was  more  familiar  than 
that  of  (Edipus.  But  I  was  speaking  of  actions  as  they  presented 
themselves  to  us  moderns  :  and  it  will  hardly  be  said  that  the  Euro- 
pean mind,  since  Voltaire,  has  much  more  affinity  with  the  times  of 
Macbeth  than  with  those  of  CEdipus.  As  moderns,  it  seems  to  me, 

420 


PREFACE  TO  POEMS  (1853-1854)  421 

we  have  no  longer  any  direct  affinity  with  the  circumstances  and 
feelings  of  either  ;  as  individuals,  we  are  attracted  towards  this 
or  that  personage,  we  have  a  capacity  for  imagining  him,  irre- 
spective of  his  times,  solely  according  to  a  law  of  personal  sympathy ; 
and  those  subjects  for  which  we  feel  this  personal  attraction  most 
strongly,  we  may  hope  to  treat  successfully.  Alcestis  or  Joan  of 
Arc,  Charlemagne  or  Agamemnon  —  one  of  these  is  not  really 
nearer  to  us  now  than  another ;  each  can  be  made  present  only  by 
an  act  of  poetic  imagination  :  this  man's  imagination  has  an  affinity 
for  one  of  them,  and  that  man's  for  another. 

It  has  been  said  that  I  wish  to  limit  the  Poet  in  his  choice  of 
subjects  to  the  period  of  Greek  and  Roman  antiquity :  but  it  is 
not  so :  I  only  counsel  him  to  choose  for  his  subjects  great  actions, 
without  regarding  to  what  time  they  belong.  Nor  do  I  deny  that 
the  poetic  faculty  can  and  does  manifest  itself  in  treating  the  most 
trifling  action,  the  most  hopeless  subject.  But  it  is  a  pity  that 
power  should  be  compelled  to  impart  interest  and  force  to  his 
subject,  instead  of  receiving  them  from  it,  and  thereby  doubling 
his  impressiveness.  There  is,  it  has  been  excellently  said,  an 
immortal  strength  in  the  stories  of  great  actions :  the  most  gifted 
poet,  then,  may  well  be  glad  to  supplement  with  it  that  mortal 
weakness,  which,  in  presence  of  the  vast  spectacle  of  life  and  the 
world,  he  must  for  ever  feel  to  be  his  individual  portion. 

Again,  with  respect  to  the  study  of  the  classical  writers  of  antiq- 
uity :  it  has  been  said  that  we  should  emulate  rather  than  imitate 
them.  I  make  no  objection :  all  I  say  is,  let  us  study  them.  They 
can  help  to  cure  us  of  what  is,  it  seems  to  me,  the  great  vice  of  our 
intellect,  manifesting  itself  in  our  incredible  vagaries  in  literature, 
in  art,  in  religion,  in  morals ;  namely,  that  it  is  fantastic  and  wants 
sanity.  Sanity  —  that  is  the  great  virtue  of  the  ancient  literature  : 
the  want  of  that  is  the  great  defect  of  the  modern,  in  spite  of  all 
its  variety  and  power.  It  is  impossible  to  read  carefully  the  great 
ancients,  without  losing  something  of  our  caprice  and  eccentricity ; 
and  to  emulate  them  we  must  at  least  read  them. 


422  MATTHEW   ARNOLD 

• 
PREFACE 

In  two  small  volumes  of  Poems,  published  anonymously,  one  in 
1849,  the  other  in  1852,  many  of  the  Poems  which  compose  the 
present  volume  have  already  appeared.  The  rest  are  now  published 
for  the  first  time. 

I  have,  in  the  present  collection,  omitted  the  Poem  from  which 
the  volume  published  in  1852  took  its  title.  I  have  done  so,  not 
because  the  subject  of  it  was  a  Sicilian  Greek  born  between  two 
and  three  thousand  years  ago,  although  many  persons  would  think 
this  a  sufficient  reason.  Neither  have  I  done  so  because  I  had,  in 
my  own  opinion,  failed  in  the  delineation  which  I  intended  to  effect. 
I  intended  to  delineate  the  feelings  of  one  of  the  last  of  the  Greek 
religious  philosophers,  one  of  the  family  of  Orpheus  and  Musseus, 
having  survived  his  fellows,  living  on  into  a  time  when  the  habits 
of  Greek  thought  and  feeling  had  begun  fast  to  change,  character  to 
dwindle,  the  influence  of  the  Sophists  to  prevail.  Into  the  feelings 
of  a  man  so  situated  there  entered  much  that  we  are  accustomed 
to  consider  as  exclusively  modern;  how  much,  the  fragments  of 
Empedocles  himself  which  remain  to  us  are  sufficient  at  least  to 
indicate.  What  those  who  are  familiar  only  with  the  great  monu- 
ments of  early  Greek  genius  suppose  to  be  its  exclusive  characteris- 
tics, have  disappeared;  the  calm,  the  cheerfulness,  the  disinterested 
objectivity  have  disappeared :  the  dialogue  of  the  mind  with  itself 
has  commenced ;  modern  problems  have  presented  themselves  ;  we 
hear  already  the  doubts,  we  witness  the  discouragement,  of  Hamlet 
and  of  Faust. 

The  representation  of  such  a  man's  feelings  must  be  interest- 
ing, if  consistently  drawn.  We  all  naturally  take  pleasure,  says 
Aristotle,  in  any  imitation  or  representation  whatever :  this  is  the 
basis  of  our  love  of  Poetry :  and  we  take  pleasure  in  them,  he  adds, 
because  all  knowledge  is  naturally  agreeable  to  us ;  not  to  the 
philosopher  only,  but  to  mankind  at  large.  Every  representation 
therefore  which  is  consistently  drawn  may  be  supposed  to  be 
interesting  inasmuch  as  it  gratifies  this  natural  interest  in  know- 
ledge of  all  kinds.  What  is  not  interesting,  is  that  which  does  not 
add  to  our  knowledge  of  any  kind ;  that  which  is  vaguely  conceived 


PREFACE  423 

and  loosely  drawn;  a  representation  which  is  general,  indetermin- 
ate, and  faint,  instead  of  being  particular,  precise,  and  firm. 

Any  accurate  representation  may  therefore  be  expected  to  be 
interesting ;  but,  if  the  representation  be  a  poetical  one,  more  than 
this  is  demanded.  It  is  demanded,  not  only  that  it  shall  interest, 
but  also  that  it  shall  inspirit  and  rejoice  the  reader :  that  it  shall 
convey  a  charm,  and  infuse  delight.  For  the  Muses,  as  Hesiod 
says,  were  born  that  they  might  be  "  a  forgetfulness  of  evils,  and 
a  truce  from  cares : "  and  it  is  not  enough  that  the  Poet  should 
add  to  the  knowledge  of  men,  it  is  required  of  him  also  that  he 
should  add  to  their  happiness.  "All  Art,"  says  Schiller,  "is 
dedicated  to  Joy,  and  there  is  no  higher  and  no  more  serious  pro- 
blem, than  how  to  make  men  happy.  The  right  Art  is  that  alone, 
which  creates  the  highest  enjoyment." 

A  poetical  work,  therefore,  is  not  yet  justified  when  it  has  been 
shown  to  be  an  accurate,  and  therefore  interesting,  representation ; 
it  has  to  be  shown  also  that  it  is  a  representation  from  which  men 
can  derive  enjoyment.  In  presence  of  the  most  tragic  circum- 
stances, represented  in  a  work  of  Art,  the  feeling  of  enjoyment,  as 
is  well  known,  may  still  subsist :  the  representation  of  the  most 
utter  calamity,  of  the  liveliest  anguish,  is  not  sufficient  to  destroy 
it:  the  more  tragic  the  situation,  the  deeper  becomes  the  enjoy- 
ment ;  and  the  situation  is  more  tragic  in  proportion  as  it  becomes 
more  terrible. 

What  then  are  the  situations,  from  the  representation  of  which, 
though  accurate,  no  poetical  enjoyment  can  be  derived?  They  are 
those  in  which  the  suffering  finds  no  vent  in  action ;  in  which  a 
continuous  state  of  mental  distress  is  prolonged,  unrelieved  by 
incident,  hope,  or  resistance ;  in  which  there  is  everything  to  be 
endured,  nothing  to  be  done.  In  such  situations  there  is  inevitably 
something  morbid,  in  the  description  of  them  something  monoton- 
ous. When  they  occur  in  actual  life,  they  are  painful,  not  tragic ; 
the  representation  of  them  in  poetry  is  painful  also. 

To  this  class  of  situations,  poetically  faulty  as  it  appears  to  me, 
that  of  Empedocles,  as  I  have  endeavoured  to  represent  him, 
belongs;  and  I  have  therefore  excluded  the  Poem  from  the  present 
collection. 


424  MATTHEW   ARNOLD 

And  why,  it  may  be  asked,  have  I  entered  into  this  explanation 
respecting  a  matter  so  unimportant  as  the  admission  or  exclusion 
of  the  Poem  in  question  ?  I  have  done  so,  because  I  was  anxious 
to  avow  that  the  sole  reason  for  its  exclusion  was  that  which  has 
been  stated  above ;  and  that  it  has  not  been  excluded  in  deference 
to  the  opinion  which  many  critics  of  the  present  day  appear  to 
entertain  against  subjects  chosen  from  distant  times  and  countries  : 
against  the  choice,  in  short,  of  any  subjects  but  modern  ones. 

"The  Poet,"  it  is  said,*  and  by  an  intelligent  critic,  "the  Poet 
who  would  really  fix  the  public  attention  must  leave  the  exhausted 
past,  and  draw  his  subjects  from  matters  of  present  import,  and 
therefore  both  of  interest  and  novelty." 

Now  this  view  I  believe  to  be  completely  false.  It  is  worth 
examining,  inasmuch  as  it  is  a  fair  sample  of  a  class  of  critical 
dicta  everywhere  current  at  the  present  day,  having  a  philosoph- 
ical form  and  air,  but  no  real  basis  in  fact ;  and  which  are  cal- 
culated to  vitiate  the  judgment  of  readers  of  poetry,  while  they , 
exert,  so  far  as  they  are  adopted,  a  misleading  influence  on  the 
practice  of  those  who  write  it. 

What  are  the  eternal  objects  of  Poetry,  among  all  nations  and 
at  all  times  ?  They  are  actions ;  human  actions  ;  possessing  an 
inherent  interest  in  themselves,  and  which  are  to  be  communicated 
in  an  interesting  manner  by  the  art  of  the  Poet.  Vainly  will  the 
latter  imagine  that  he  has  everything  in  his  own  power ;  that  he 
can  make  an  intrinsically  inferior  action  equally  delightful  with  a 
more  excellent  one  by  his  treatment  of  it :  he  may  indeed  compel 
us  to  admire  his  skill,  but  his  work  will  possess,  within  itself,  an 
incurable  defect. 

The  Poet,  then,  has  in  the  first  place  to  select  an  excellent 
action ;  and  what  actions  are  the  most  excellent  ?  Those,  cert- 
ainly, which  most  powerfully  appeal  to  the  great  primary  human 
affections  :  to  those  elementary  feelings  which  subsist  permanently 
in  the  race,  and  which  are  independent  of  time.  These  feelings 
are  permanent  and  the  same ;  that  which  interests  them  is  per- 
manent and  the  same  also.  The  modernness  or  antiquity  of  an 

*  In  the  Spectator  of  April  2d,  1853.  The  words  quoted  were  not  used  with 
reference  to  poems  of  mine. 


PREFACE  425 

action,  therefore,  has  nothing  to  do  with  its  fitness  for  poetical 
representation ;  this  depends  upon  its  inherent  qualities.  To  the 
elementary  part  of  our  nature,  to  our  passions,  that  which  is  great 
and  passionate  is  eternally  interesting ;  and  interesting  solely  in 
proportion  to  its  greatness  and  to  its  passion.  A  great  human 
action  of  a  thousand  years  ago  is  more  interesting  to  it  than  a 
smaller  human  action  of  to-day,  even  though  upon  the  represent- 
ation of  this  last  the  most  consummate  skill  may  have  been 
expended,  and  though  it  has  the  advantage  of  appealing  by  its 
modern  language,  familiar  manners,  and  contemporary  allusions, 
to  all  our  transient  feelings  and  interests.  These,  however,  have 
no  right  to  demand  of  a  poetical  work  that  it  shall  satisfy  them ; 
their  claims  are  to  be  directed  elsewhere.  Poetical  works  belong 
to  the  domain  of  our  permanent  passions  :  let  them  interest  these, 
and  the  voice  of  all  subordinate  claims  upon  them  is  at  once 
silenced. 

Achilles,  Prometheus,  Clytemnestra,  Dido  —  what  modern  poem 
presents  personages  as  interesting,  even  to  us  moderns,  as  these 
personages  of  an  "  exhausted  past  "  ?  We  have  the  domestic  epic 
dealing  with  the  details  of  modern  life,  which  pass  daily  under 
our  eyes ;  we  have  poems  representing  modern  personages  in  con- 
tact with  the  problems  of  modern  life,  moral,  intellectual,  and 
social ;  these  works  have  been  produced  by  poets  the  most  dis- 
tinguished of  their  nation  and  time ;  yet  I  fearlessly  assert  that 
Hermann  and  Dorothea,  Childe  Harold,  Jocelyn,  The  Excursion, 
leave  the  reader  cold  in  comparison  with  the  effect  produced  upon 
him  by  the  latter  books  of  the  Iliad,  by  the  Orestea,  or  by  the 
episode  of  Dido.  And  why  is  this  ?  Simply  because  in  the  three 
latter  cases  the  action  is  greater,  the  personages  nobler,  the  situ- 
ations more  intense :  and  this  is  the  true  basis  of  the  interest  in  a 
poetical  work,  and  this  alone. 

It  may  be  urged,  however,  that  past  actions  may  be  interesting 
in  themselves,  but  that  they  are  not  to  be  adopted  by  the  modern 
Poet,  because  it  is  impossible  for  him  to  have  them  clearly  present 
to  his  own  mind,  and  he  cannot  therefore  feel  them  deeply,  nor 
represent  them  forcibly.  But  this  is  not  necessarily  the  case. 
The  externals  of  a  past  action,  indeed,  he  cannot  know  with  the 


426  MATTHEW   ARNOLD 

precision  of  a  contemporary;  but  his  business  is  with  its  essentials. 
The  outward  man  of  (Edipus  or  of  Macbeth,  the  houses  in  which 
they  lived,  the  ceremonies  of  their  courts,  he  cannot  accurately 
figure  to  himself;  but  neither  do  they  essentially  concern  him. 
His  business  is  with  their  inward  man;  with  their  feelings  and 
behaviour  in  certain  tragic  situations,  which  engage  their  passions 
as  men ;  these  have  in  them  nothing  local  and  casual ;  they  are  as 
accessible  to  the  modern  Poet  as  to  a  contemporary. 

The  date  of  an  action,  then,  signifies  nothing:  the  action  itself, 
its  selection  and  construction,  this  is  what  is  all-important.  This 
the  Greeks  understood  far  more  clearly  than  we  do.  The  radical 
difference  between  their  poetical  theory  and  ours  consists,  as  it 
appears  to  me,  in  this :  that,  with  them,  the  poetical  character 
of  the  actien  in  itself,  and  the  conduct  of  it,  was  the  first  con- 
sideration ;  with  us,  attention  is  fixed  mainly  on  the  value  of  the 
separate  thoughts  and  images  which  occur  in  the  treatment  of  an 
action.  They  regarded  the  whole ;.  we  regard  the  parts.  With 
them,  the  action  predominated  over  the  expression  of  it ;  with  us, 
the  expression  predominates  over  the  action.  Not  that  they  failed 
in  expression,  or  were  inattentive  to  it ;  on  the  contrary,  they  are 
the  highest  models  of  expression, -the  unapproached  masters  of  the 
grand  style:  but  their  expression  is  so  excellent  because  it  is  so 
admirably  kept  in  its  right  degree  of  prominence ;  because  it 
is  so  simple  and  so  well  subordinated ;  because  it  draws  its  force 
directly  from  the  pregnancy  of  the  matter  which  it  conveys.  For 
what  reason  was  the  Greek  tragic  poet  confined  to  so  limited  a 
range  of  subjects  ?  Because  there  are  so  few  actions  which  unite 
in  themselves,  in  the  highest  degree,  the  conditions  of  excellence ; 
and  it  was  not  thought  that  on  any  but  an  excellent  subject 
could  an  excellent  Poem  be  constructed.  A  few  actions,  therefore, 
eminently  adapted  for  tragedy,  maintained  almost  exclusive  pos- 
session of  the  Greek  tragic  stage ;  their  significance  appeared 
inexhaustible ;  they  were  as  permanent  problems,  perpetually 
offered  to  the  genius  of  every  fresh  poet.  This  too  is  the  reason 
of  what  appears  to  us  moderns  a  certain  baldness  of  expression  in 
Greek  tragedy;  of  the  triviality  with  which  we  often  reproach 
the  remarks  of  the  chorus,  where  it  takes  part  in  the  dialogue : 


PREFACE  427 

that  the  action  itself,  the  situation  of  Orestes,  or  Metope,  or 
Alcmaeon,  was  to  stand  the  central  point  of  interest,  unforgotten, 
absorbing,  principal ;  that  no  accessories  were  for  a  moment  to 
distract  the  spectator's  attention  from  this,  that  the  tone  of  the 
parts  was  to  be  perpetually  kept  down,  in  order  not  to  impair 
the  grandiose  effect  of  the  whole.  •  The  terrible  old  mythic  story 
on  which  the  drama  was  founded  stood,  before  he  entered  the 
theatre,  traced  in  its  bare  outlines  upon  the  spectator's  mind; 
it  stood  in  his  memory,  as.  a  group  of  statuary,  faintly  seen,  at  the 
end  of  a  long  and  dark  vista :  then  came  the  Poet,  embodying  out- 
lines, developing  situations,  not  a  word  wasted,  not  a  sentiment 
capriciously  thrown  in :  stroke  upon  stroke,  the  drama  proceeded : 
the  light  deepened  upon  the  group ;  more  and  more  it  revealed 
itself  to  the  rivetted  gaze  of  the  spectator  :  until  at  last,  when  the 
final  words  were  spoken,  it  stood  before  him  in  broad  sunlight, 
a  model  of  immortal  beauty. 

This  was  what  a  Greek  critic  demanded ;  this  was  what  a  Greek 
poet  endeavoured  to  effect.  It  signified  nothing  to  what  time  an 
action  belonged;  we  do  not  find  that  the  Persce  occupied  a  parti- 
cularly high  rank  among  the  dramas  of  ^Eschylus,  because  it  repre- 
sented a  matter  of  contemporary  interest :  this  was  not  what  a 
cultivated  Athenian  required;  he  required  that  the  permanent 
elements  of  his  nature  should  be  moved ;  and  dramas  of  which  the 
action,  though  taken  from  a  long-distant  mythic  time,  yet  was  cal- 
culated to  accomplish  this  in  a  higher  degree  than  that  of  the 
Persce,  stood  higher  in  his  estimation  accordingly.  The  Greeks 
felt,  no  doubt,  with  their  exquisite  sagacity  of  taste,  that  an  action 
of  present  times  was  too  near  them,  too  much  mixed  up  with  what 
was  accidental  and  passing,  to  form  a  sufficiently  grand,  detached, 
and  self-subsistent  object  for  a  tragic  poem  :  such  objects  belonged 
to  the  domain  of  the  comic  poet,  and  of  the  lighter  kinds  of  poetry. 
For  the  more  serious  kinds,  for  pragmatic  poetry,  to  use  an  excel- 
lent expression  of  Polybius,  they  were  'more  difficult  and  severe  in 
the  range  of  subjects  which  they  permitted.  Their  theory  and 
practice  alike,  the  admirable  treatise  of  Aristotle,  and  the  unriv- 
alled works  of  their  poets,  exclaim  with  a  thousand  tongues  — 
"all  depends  upon  the  subject;  choose  a  fitting  action,  penetrate 


428  MATTHEW  ARXOLD 

yourself  with  the  feeling  of  its  situations ;  this  done,  everything 
else  will  follow." 

But  for  all  kinds  of  poetry  alike  there  was  one  point  on  which 
they  were  rigidly  exacting ;  the  adaptability  of  the  subject  to  the 
kind  of  poetry  selected,  and  the  careful  construction  of  the  poem. 

How  different  a  way  of  thi»king  from  this  is  ours  !  We  can 
hardly  at  the  present  day  understand  what  Menander  meant,  when 
he  told  a  man  who  enquired  as  to  the  progress  of  his  comedy  that 
he  had  finished  it,  not  having  yet  written  a  single  line,  because  he 
had  constructed  the  action  of  it  in  his  mind.  A  modern  critic 
would  have  assured  him  that  the  merit  of  his  piece  depended  on 
the  brilliant  things  which  arose  under  his  pen  as  he  went  along. 
We  have  poems  which  seem  to  exist  merely  for  the  sake  of  single 
lines  and  passages ;  not  for  the  sake  of  producing  any  total- 
impression.  We  have  critics  who  seem  to  direct  their  attention 
merely  to  detached  expressions,  to  the  language  about  the  action, 
not  to  the  action  itself.  I  verily  think  that  the  majority  of  them 
do  not  in  their  hearts  believe  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  total- 
impression  to  be  derived  from  a  poem  at  all,  or  to  be  demanded  from 
a  poet ;  they  think  the  term  a  commonplace  of  metaphysical  criti- 
cism. They  will  permit  the  Poet  to  select  any  action  he  pleases, 
and  to  suffer  that  action  to  go  as  it  will,  provided  he  gratifies  them 
with  occasional  bursts  of  fine  writing,  and  with  a  shower  of  isolated 
thoughts  and  images.  That  is,  they  permit  him  to  leave  their 
poetical  sense  ungratified,  provided  that  he  gratifies  their  rhetor- 
ical sense  and  their  curiosity.  Of  his  neglecting  to  gratify  these, 
there  is  little  danger;  he  needs  rather  to  be  warned  against  the 
danger  of  attempting  to  gratify  these  alone  ;  he  needs  rather  to  be 
perpetually  reminded  to  prefer  his  action  to  everything  else; 
so  to  treat  this,  as  to  permit  its  inherent  excellences  to  develop 
themselves,  without  interruption  from  the  intrusion  of  his  personal 
peculiarities  :  most  fortunate  when  he  most  entirely  succeeds  in 
effacing  himself,  and  in  enabling  a  noble  action  to  subsist  as  it  did 
in  nature. 

But  the  modern  critic  not  only  permits  a  false  practice ;  he  abso- 
lutely prescribes  false  aims.  —  "A  true  allegory  of  the  state  of 
one's  own  mind  in  a  representative  history,"  the  Poet  is  told, 


PREFACE  429 

"is  perhaps  the  highest  thing  that  one  can  attempt  in  the  way  of 
Poetry."  And  accordingly  he  attempts  it.  An  allegory  of  the 
state  of  one's  own  mind,  the  highest  problem  of  an  art  which  imi- 
tates actions  !  No  assuredly,  it  is  not,  it  never  can  be  so  :  no  great 
poetical  work  has  ever  been  produced  with  such  an  aim.  Faust 
itself,  in  which  something  of  the  kind  is  attempted,  wonderful 
passages  as  it  contains,  and  in  spite  of  the  unsurpassed  beauty  of 
the  scenes  which  relate  to  Margaret,  Faust  itself,  judged  as  a 
whole,  and  judged  strictly  as  a  poetical  work,  is  defective :  its 
illustrious  author,  the  greatest  poet  of  modern  times,  the  greatest 
critic  of  all  times,  would  have  been  the  first  to  acknowledge  it ; 
he  only  defended  his  work,  indeed,  by  asserting  it  to  be  "some- 
thing incommensurable." 

The  confusion  of  the  present  times  is  great,  the  multitude  of 
voices  counselling  different  things  bewildering,  the  number  of  exist- 
ing works  capable  of  attracting  a  young  writer's  attention  and  of 
becoming  his  models,  immense :  what  he  wants  is  a  hand  to  guide 
him  through  the  confusion,  a  voice  to  prescribe  to  him  the  aim 
which  he  should  keep  in  view,  and  to  explain  to  him  that  the  value 
of  the  literary  works  which  offer  themselves  to  his  attention  is 
relative  to  their  power  of  helping  him  forward  on  his  road  towards 
this  aim.  Such  a  guide  the  English  writer  at  the  present  day  will 
nowhere  find.  Failing  this,  all  that  can  be  looked  for,  all  indeed 
that  can  be  desired,  is,  that  his  attention  should  be  fixed  on  excel- 
lent models ;  that  he  may  reproduce,  at  any  rate,  something  of 
their  excellence,  by  penetrating  himself  with  their  works  and  by 
catching  their  spirit,  if  he  cannot  be  taught  to  produce  what  is 
excellent  independently. 

Foremost  among  these  models  for  the  English  writer  stands 
Shakespeare :  a  name  the  greatest  perhaps  of  all  poetical  names ; 
a  name  never  to  be  mentioned  without  reverence.  I  will  venture, 
however,  to  express  a  doubt  whether  the  influence  of  his  works, 
excellent  and  fruitful  for  the  readers  of  poetry,  for  the  great  major- 
ity, has  been  of  unmixed  advantage  to  the  writers  of  it.  Shake- 
speare indeed  chose  excellent  subjects  —  the  world  could  afford  no 
better  than  Macbeth,  or  Romeo  and  Juliet,  or  Othello  :  he  had 
no  theory  respecting  the  necessity  of  choosing  subjects  of  present 


430  MATTHEW   ARNOLD 

import,  or  the  paramount  interest  attaching  to  allegories  of  the 
state  of  one's  own  mind  ;  like  all  great  poets,  he  knew  well  what 
constituted  a  poetical  action ;  like  them,  wherever  he  found  such 
an  action,  he  took  it ;  like  them,  too,  he  found  his  best  in  past 
times.  But  to  these  general  characteristics  of  all  great  poets  he 
added  a  special  one  of  his  own,  a  gift,  namely,  of  happy,  abundant, 
and  ingenious  expression,  eminent  and  unrivalled :  so  eminent  as 
irresistibly  to  strike  the  attention  first  in  him,  and  even  to  throw 
into  comparative  shade  his  other  excellences  as  a  poet.  Here  has 
been  the  mischief.  These  other  excellences  were  his  fundamental 
excellences  as  a  poet;  what  distinguishes  the  artist  from  the  mere 
amateur,  says  Goethe,  is  Architectonice  in  the  highest  sense ;  that 
power  of  execution  which  creates,  forms,  and  constitutes :  not  the 
profoundness  of  single  thoughts,  not  the  richness  of  imagery,  not 
the  abundance  of  illustration.  But  these  attractive  accessories  of 
a  poetical  work  being  more  easily  seized  than  the  spirit  of  the 
whole,  and  these  accessories  being  possessed  by  Shakespeare  in  an 
unequalled  degree,  a  young  writer  having  recourse  to  Shakespeare 
as  his  model  runs  great  risk  of  being  vanquished  and  absorbed  by 
them,  and,  in  consequence,  of  reproducing,  according  to  the  mea- 
sure of  his  power,  these,  and  these  alone.  Of  this  prepondering 
quality  of  Shakespeare's  genius,  accordingly,  almost  the  whole  of 
modern  English  poetry  has,  it  appears  to  me,  felt  the  influence. 
To  the  exclusive  attention  on  the  part  of  his  imitators  to  this,  it  is 
in  a  great  degree  owing  that  of  the  majority  of  modern  poetical 
works  the  details  alone  are  valuable,  the  composition  worthless. 
In  reading  them  one  is  perpetually  reminded  of  that  terrible  sen- 
tence on  a  modern  French  poet,  —  il  dit  tout  ce  qu'il  veut,  mais 
malheureusement  il  n'a  rien  a  dire. 

Let  me  give  an  instance  of  what  I  mean.  I  will  take  it  from 
the  works  of  the  very  chief  among  those  who  seem  to  have  been 
formed  in  the  school  of  Shakespeare :  of  one  whose  exquisite 
genius  and  pathetic  death  render  him  for  ever  interesting.  I  will 
take  the  poem  of  Isabella,  or  the  Pot  of  Basil,  by  Keats.  I  choose 
this  rather  than  Endymion,  because  the  latter  work  (which  a  modern 
critic  has  classed  with  the  Fairy  Queen!},  although  undoubtedly 
there  blows  through  it  the  breath  of  genius,  is  yet  as  a  whole  so 


PREFACE  431 

utterly  incoherent,  as  not  strictly  to  merit  the  name  of  a  poem 
at  all.  The  poem  of  Isabella,  then,  is  a  perfect  treasure-house  of 
graceful  and  felicitous  words  and  images  :  almost  in  every  stanza 
there  occurs  one  of  those  vivid  and  picturesque  turns  of  expression, 
by  which  the  object  is  made  to  flash  upon  the  eye  of  the  mind,  and 
which  thrill  the  reader  with  a  sudden  delight.  This  one  short 
poem  contains,  perhaps,  a  greater  number  of  happy  single  expres- 
sions which  one  could  quote  than  all  the  extant  tragedies  of 
Sophocles.  But  the  action,  the  story?  The  action  in  itself  is  an 
excellent  one ;  but  so  feebly  is  it  conceived  by  the  Poet,  so  loosely 
constructed,  that  the  effect  produced  by  it,  in  and  for  itself,  is  abso- 
lutely null.  Let  the  reader,  after  he  has  finished  the  poem  of 
Keats,  turn  to  the  same  story  in  the  Decameron :  he  will  then  feel 
how  pregnant  and  interesting  the  same  action  has  become  in  the 
hands  of  a  great  artist,  who  above  all  things  delineates  his  object ; 
who  subordinates  expression  to  that  which  it  is  designed  to  express. 
I  have  said  that  the  imitators  of  Shakespeare,  fixing  their  atten- 
tion on  his  wonderful  gift  of  expression,  have  directed  their  imita- 
tion to  this,  neglecting  his  other  excellences.  These  excellences, 
the  fundamental  excellences  of  poetical  art,  Shakespeare  no  doubt 
possessed  them — possessed  many  of  them  in  a  splendid  degree ; 
but  it  may  perhaps  be  doubted  whether  even  he  himself  did  not 
sometimes  give  scope  to  his  faculty  of  expression  to  the  prejudice 
of  a  higher  poetical  duty.  For  we  must  never  forget  that  Shake- 
speare is  the  great  poet  he  is  from  his  skill  in  discerning  and  firmly 
conceiving  an  excellent  action,  from  his  power  of  intensely  feeling 
a  situation,  of  intimately  associating  himself  with  a  character ;  not 
from  his  gift  of  expression,  which  rather  even  leads  him  astray, 
degenerating  sometimes  into  a  fondness  for  curiosity  of  expression, 
into  an  irritability  of  fancy,  which  seems  to  make  it  impossible  for 
him  to  say  a  thing  plainly,  even  when  the  press  of  the  action 
demands  the  very  directest  language,  or  its  level  character  the 
very  simplest.  Mr.  Hallam,  than  whom  it  is  impossible  to  find  a 
saner  and  more  judicious  critic,  has  had  the  courage  (for  at  the 
present  day  it  needs  courage)  to  remark,  how  extremely  and  faultily 
difficult  Shakespeare's  language  often  is.  It  is  so  :  you  may  find 
main  scenes  in  some  of  his  greatest  tragedies,  Kiny  Lear  for 


432  MATTHEW   ARNOLD 

instance,  where  the  language  is  so  artificial,  so  curiously  tortured, 
and  so  difficult,  that  every  speech  has  to  be  read  two  or  three  times 
before  its  meaning  can  be  comprehended.  This  over-curiousness 
of  expression  is  indeed  but  the  excessive  employment  of  a  wonder- 
ful gift — of  the  power  of  saying  a  thing  in  a  happier  way  than  any 
other  man ;  nevertheless,  it  is  carried  so  far  that  one  understands 
what  M.  Guizot  meant  when  he  said  that  Shakespeare  appears  in 
his  language  to  have  tried  all  styles  except  that  of  simplicity.  He 
has  not  the  severe  and  scrupulous  self-restraint  of  the  ancients, 
partly,  no  doubt,  because  he  had  a  far  less  cultivated  and  exacting 
audience :  he  has  indeed  a  far  wider  range  than  they  had,  a  far 
richer  fertility  of  thought ;  in  this  respect  he  rises  above  them  :  in 
his  strong  conception  of  his  subject,  in  the  genuine  way  in  which 
he  is  penetrated  with  it,  he  resembles  them,  and  is  unlike  the 
moderns :  but  in  the  accurate  limitation  of  it,  the  conscientious 
rejection  of  superfluities,  the  simple  and  rigorous  development  of 
it  from  the  first  line  of  his  work  to  the  last,  he  falls  below  them, 
and  comes  nearer  to  the  moderns.  In  his  chief  works,  besides  what 
he  has  of  his  own,  he  has  the  elementary  soundness  of  the  ancients; 
he  has  their  important  action  and  their  large  and  broad  manner; 
but  he  has  not  their  purity  of  method.  He  is  therefore  a  less  safe 
model ;  for  what  he  has  of  his  own  is  personal,  and  inseparable 
from  his  own  rich  nature ;  it  may  be  imitated  and  exaggerated,  it 
cannot  be  learned  or  applied  as  an  art ;  he  is  above  all  suggestive ; 
more  valuable,  therefore,  to  young  writers  as  men  than  as  artists. 
But  clearness  of  arrangement,  rigour  of  development,  simplicity  of 
style  —  these  may  to  a  certain  extent  be  learned :  and  these  may, 
I  am  convinced,  be  learned  best  from  the  ancients,  who,  although 
infinitely  less  suggestive  than  Shakespeare,  are  thus,  to  the  artist, 
more  instructive. 

What  then,  it  will  be  asked,  are  the  ancients  to  be  our  sole 
models  ?  the  ancients  with  their  comparatively  narrow  range  of 
experience,  and  their  widely  different  circumstances?  Not,  cert- 
ainly, that  which  is  narrow  in  the  ancients,  nor  that  in  which 
we  can  no  longer  sympathize.  An  action  like  the  action  of  the 
Antigone  of  Sophocles,  which  turns  upon  the  conflict  between  the 
heroine's  duty  to  her  brother's  corpse  and  that  to  the  laws  of  her 


PREFACE  433 

country,  is  no  longer  one  in  which  it  is  possible  that  we  should  feel 
a  deep  interest.  I  am  speaking  too,  it  will  be  remembered,  not  of 
the  best  sources  of  intellectual  stimulus  for  the  general  reader,  but 
of  the  best  models  of  instruction  for  the  individual  writer.  This 
last  may  certainly  learn  of  the  ancients,  better  than  anywhere  else, 
three  things  which  it  is  vitally  important  for  him  to  know :  —  the 
all-importance  of  the  choice  of  a  subject ;  the  necessity  of  accurate 
construction  ;  and  the  subordinate  character  of  expression.  He  will 
learn  from  them  how  unspeakably  superior  is  the  effect  of  the  one 
moral  impression  left  by  a  great  action  treated  as  a  whole,  to  the 
effect  produced  by  the  most  striking  single  thought  or  by  the 
happiest  image.  As  he  penetrates  into  the  spirit  of  the  great 
classical  works,  as  he  becomes  gradually  aware  of  their  intense 
significance,  their  noble  simplicity,  and  their  calm  pathos,  he  will 
be  convinced  that  it  is  this  effect,  unity  and  profoundness  of  moral 
impression,  at  which  the  ancient  Poets  aimed  ;  that  it  is  this  which 
constitutes  the  grandeur  of  their  works,  and  which  makes  them 
immortal.  He  will  desire  to  direct  his  own  efforts  towards  pro- 
ducing the  same  effect.  Above  all,  he  will  deliver  himself  from 
the  jargon  of  modern  criticism,  and  escape  the  danger  of  producing 
poetical  works  conceived  in  the  spirit  of  the  passing  time,  and 
which  partake  of  its  transitoriness. 

The  present  age  makes  great  claims  upon  us  :  we  owe  it  service,  it 
will  not  be  satisfied  without  our  admiration.  I  know  not  how  it  is, 
but  their  commerce  with  the  ancients  appears  to  me  to  produce,  in 
those  who  constantly  practise  it,  a  steadying  and  composing  effect 
upon  their  judgment,  not  of  literary  works  only,  but  of  men  and 
events  in  general.  They  are  like  persons  who  have  had  a  very 
weighty  and  impressive  experience  ;  they  are  more  truly  than 
others  under  the  empire  of  facts,  and  more  independent  of  the 
language  current  among  those  with  whom  they  live.  They  wish 
neither  to  applaud  nor  to  revile  their  age  :  they  wish  to  know 
what  it  is,  what  it  can  give  them,  and  whether  this  is  what  they 
want.  What  they  want,  they  know  very  well ;  they  want  to  educe 
and  cultivate  what  is  best  and  noblest  in  themselves  :  they  know, 
too,  that  this  is  no  easy  task  —  xa*-eir°v  as  Pittacus  said,  ^aXeii-ov 
taOXov  tp.fj.fvai  —  and  they  ask  themselves  sincerely  whether  their 


434  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

age  and  its  literature  can  assist  them  in  the  attempt.  If  they  are 
endeavouring  to  practise  any  art,  they  remember  the  plain  and 
simple  proceedings  of  the  old  artists,  who  attained  their  grand 
results  by  penetrating  themselves  with  some  noble  and  significant 
action,  not  by  inflating  themselves  with  a  belief  in  the  preeminent 
importance  and  greatness  of  their  own  times.  They  do  not  talk 
of  their  mission,  nor  of  interpreting  their  age,  nor  of  the  coming 
Poet ;  all  this,  they  know,  is  the  mere  delirium  of  vanity  ;  their 
business  is  not  to  praise  their  age,  but  to  afford  to  the  men  who 
live  in  it  the  highest  pleasure  which  they  are  capable  of  feeling. 
If  asked  to  afford  this  by  means  of  subjects  drawn  from  the  age 
itself,  they  ask  what  special  fitness  the  present  age  has  for  sup- 
plying them  :  they  are  told  that  it  is  an  era  of  progress,  an  age 
commissioned  to  carry  out  the  great  ideas  of  industrial  development 
and  social  amelioration.  They  reply  that  with  all  this  they  can 
do  nothing  ;  that  the  elements  they  need  for  the  exercise  of  their 
art  are  great  actions,  calculated  powerfully  and  delightfully  to 
affect  what  is  permanent  in  the  human  soul ;  that  so  far  as  the 
present  age  can  supply  such  actions,  they  will  gladly  make  use  of 
them ;  but  that  an  age  wanting  in  moral  grandeur  can  with 
difficulty  supply  such,  and  an  age  of  spiritual  discomfort  with 
difficulty  be  powerfully  and  delightfully  affected  by  them. 

A  host  of  voices  will  indignantly  rejoin  that  the  present  age  is 
inferior  to  the  past  neither  in  moral  grandeur  nor  in  spiritual 
health.  He  who  possesses  the  discipline  I  speak  of  will  content 
himself  with  remembering  the  judgments  passed  upon  the  present 
age,  in  this  respect,  by  the  two  men,  the  one  of  strongest  head, 
the  other  of  widest  culture,  whom  it  has  produced  ;  by  Goethe 
and  by  Niebuhr.  It  will  be  sufficient  for  him  that  he  knows  the 
opinions  held  by  these  two  great  men  respecting  the  present  age 
and  its  literature ;  and  that  he  feels  assured  in  his  own  mind  that 
their  aims  and  demands  upon  life  were  such  as  he  would  wish,  at 
any  rate,  his  own  to  be  ;  and  their  judgment  as  to  what  is  impeding 
and  disabling  such  as  he  may  safely  follow.  He  will  not,  however, 
maintain  a  hostile  attitude  towards  the  false  pretensions  of  his  age ; 
he  will  content  himself  with  not  being  overwhelmed  by  them. 
He  will  esteem  himself  fortunate  if  he  can  succeed  in  banishing 


PREFACE  435 

from  his  mind  all  feelings  of  contradiction,  and  irritation,  and 
impatience  ;  in  order  to  delight  himself  with  the  contemplation  of 
some  noble  action  of  a  heroic  time,  and  to  enable  others,  through 
his  representation  of  it,  to  delight  in  it  also. 

I  am  far  indeed  from  making  any  claim,  for  myself,  that  I  pos- 
sess this  discipline  ;  or  for  the  following  Poems,  that  they  breathe 
its  spirit.  But  I  say,  that  in  the  sincere  endeavour  to  learn  and 
practise,  amid  the  bewildering  confusion  of  our  times,  what  is  sound 
and  true  in  poetical  art,  I  seemed  to  myself  to  find  the  only  sure 
guidance,  the  only  solid  footing,  among  the  ancients.  They,  at  any 
rate,  knew  what  they  wanted  in  Art,  and  we  do  not.  It  is  this 
uncertainty  which  is  disheartening,  and  not  hostile  criticism.  How 
often  have  I  felt  this  when  reading  words  of  disparagement  or  of 
cavil:  that  it  is  the  uncertainty  as  to  what  is  really  to  be  aimed  at 
which  makes  our  difficulty,  not  the  dissatisfaction  of  the  critic,  who 
himself  suffers  from  the  uncertainty.  Non  me  tua  fervida  terrent 
Dicta  ;  Dii  me  terrent,  et  Jupiter  hostis. 

Two  kinds  of  dilettanti,  says  Goethe,  there  are  in  poetry  :  he  who 
neglects  the  indispensable  mechanical  part,  and  thinks  he  has  done 
enough  if  he  shows  spirituality  and  feeling ;  and  he  who  seeks  to 
arrive  at  poetry  merely  by  mechanism,  in  which  he  can  acquire  an 
artisan's  readiness,  and  is  without  soul  and  matter.  And  he  adds, 
that  the  first  does  most  harm  to  Art,  and  the  last  to  himself.  If 
we  must  be  dilettanti :  if  it  is  impossible  for  us,  under  the  circum- 
stances amidst  which  we  live,  to  think  clearly^to  feel  nobly,  and 
to  delineate  firmly :  if  we  cannot  attain  to  the  mastery  of  the  great 
artists  — let  us,  at  least,  have  so  much  respect  for  our  Art  as  to  pre- 
fer it  to  ourselves  :  let  us  not  bewilder  our  successors  :  let  us  transmit 
to  them  the  practice  of  Poetry,  with  its  boundaries  and  wholesome 
regulative  laws,  under  which  excellent  works  may  again,  perhaps, 
at  some  future  time,  be  produced,  not  yet  fallen  into  oblivion  through 
our  neglect,  not  yet  condemned  and  cancelled  by  the  influence  of 
their  eternal  enemy,  Caprice. 


INDEX  OF  BOOKS  AND  AUTHORS 


Addison,  177-200. 
^Eschylus,  42. 
Alcaeus,  67. 
Antimachus,  29. 
Apollonius  Rhodius,  67. 

—  of  Tyana,  39. 
Apology  for  Poetry,  92-100. 
Aristotle,  iv,  xi,  1-31. 
Aristotle's  Theory  of  Poet,ry  and  Fine 

Art,  iv,  1-21,  passim. 
Arnold,  M.,  88  note,  420-435. 
Ars  Poetica,  Horace's,  54-58. 
Art  of  English  Poesy,   Puttenham's, 

100-104. 

Art  of  Poetry,  Bysshe's,  173-176. 
Art  of  Ehetorique,  Wilson's,  89,  90. 
Art  Poetique,  Boileau's,  139,  140. 

B 

Bacon.  112,  113. 

Bentley,  55  )wte. 

Biographia  Literaria,  303-365. 

Boethius,  76. 

Boileau,  85,  139,  140. 

Butcher,  Professor,  iv,  xi,  1-21  passim, 

31  note. 

Butler,  Mr.  A.  J.,  84. 
Bysshe,  173-176. 
By  water,  Mr.,  16  note. 


Causeries  du  Lundi,  410-419. 

Chateaubriand,  411. 

Cicero,  46. 

Cigarrales  de  Toledo,  136,  137. 

Cinthio  Giraldi,  87,  88. 

Coleridge,  245  note,  259,  260,  303-365. 

Convito,  The,  80  note,  83. 

Cope,  Mr.,  xi,  21-31  passim. 

Crabbe,  411. 

.       D 

Danielle,  86. 

Dante,  xi,  77-83. 

De  Arte  Poetica,  Horace's,  54-58. 

De  Consolatione,  76. 

Defence  of  Poetry,  Shelley's,  396-409. 

Demosthenes,  46. 

De  Poeta,  86. 

De  Vulgari  Eloquio  [Eloquenlia],  xi. 

77-82. 

Dionysius  of  Halicarnassus,  xi,  33-38. 
Discorso  dei  Romanzi,  88. 
Dryden,   55  note,   136,  143-172,   176, 

198  note,  412. 

E 

Epistle  to  Augustus,  217-225. 
Epistola  ad  Pisones,  54-58. 
Essay  of  Dramatic  Poesy,  146-153. 
Essay  on  Criticism,  201-216. 


Csecilius,  41,  43,  48. 
Can  Grande,  Letter  to,  85. 
Castelvetro,  7  note,  87. 
Catullus,  67. 


Favorinus,  74,  75. 
Ferrers-Howell,  Mr.,  xi. 
Filosofia  Antigua  Poetica,  137. 
Fontanes,  411  note. 


437 


438 


INDEX  OF  BOOKS  AND  AUTHOHS 


Gascoigne,  90-92. 
Gayley,  Professor,  iv,  xi. 
Gellert,  260. 
Gellius,  A.,  74,  75. 
Gildon,  173. 
Giraldi,  Cinthio,  87,  88 
Goethe,  259,  260. 
Gonzales  de  Salas,  138. 
Gottsched,  259,  260. 
Gray,  256,  257. 
Guest,  Dr.,  91,  173. 


Havell,  Mr.,  xi. 
Hazlitt,  366-395. 
Horace,  54-58. 
Hugo,  Victor,  418,  419. 
Kurd,  257,  258. 


Institutes  of  Oratory,  xi. 
Isocrates,  50. 


Johnson,  Dr.,  226-254. 
Jonson,  Ben,  107-135. 


Ker,  Professor,  143  note. 


La  Harpe,  139  note. 

Lamb,  C.,  198  note. 

Le  Bossu,  141,  142. 

Leasing,  260,  261. 

Letters  on  Chivalry  and  Romance,  257, 

258. 
Letters,   Three  Literary,  Dionysius  of 

Halicarnassus,  xi. 
Lexiphanes,  39,  40. 
Life  of  Apollonius,  39. 
Literary  Criticism,  xi. 
in  the  Renaissance,  85. 


Longinus,  xi,  27  note,  37,  41-53. 
Lope  de  Vega,  137. 
Lucian,  27  note,  39,  40. 
Lucretius,  67. 
Luzan,  259. 

M 

Macaulay,  157  note. 

Macrobius,  74. 

Masson,  Professor,  iii. 

Mene"ndez  y  Pelayo,  Seftor,  136,  137. 

Milton,  85.     See  also  under  Addison 

and  Johnson,  passim. 
Minturno,  86,  92  note. 
Moore,  Dr.,  xi,  78  note,  81  note. 
Muratori,  259. 


N 


Nisard,  414,  415. 


Odyssey,  The,  44,  45. 
Orithyia,  42. 

P 

Patrizzi,  88. 

Petronius,  59-61,  107  note. 

Philostratus,  39. 

Pinciano,  137,  138. 

Pindar,  74,  75. 

Plato,  17  note,  36,  37,  46,  76. 

Poetica,  Daniello's,  86. 

—  Scaliger's,  87. 

Patrizzi' s,  88. 

Poetics,  Aristotle's,  xi,  1-21. 

Castelvetro's,  87. 

Horace's,  54-58. 

-  Vida's,  85,  86. 

Pope,  142  note,  201-225,  394,  395. 
Prior,  176. 
Prompt,  Dr.,  xi. 
Purgatorio,  83. 
Puttenham  (?),  100-104. 


Quintilian,  xi,  47,  59  note,  62-73,  111. 


INDEX  OF   BOOKS  AND  AUTHORS 


439 


Rajna,  Signer,  xi,  78  note. 
Rambler,  The,  226-246. 
Rapin,  140,  141. 

Reflexions  sur  la  Poetique,  140,  141. 
Rhetoric,  Aristotle's,  xi,  21-31. 
Roberts,  Professor,  xi,  38. 
Robortello,  41. 
Rymer,  167  note. 

8 

Saint- Victor,  P.  de,  40  note. 
Sainte-Beuve,  410-419. 
Sanchez,  Alfonso,  137. 
Sappho,  45,  67. 
Scaliger,  J.  C.,  87. 
Schelling,  Professor,  107. 
Scott,  Professor,  xi. 
Seneca  the  Elder,  59  note. 

the  Younger,  67,  68. 

Shakespeare,  109,  110,  245,  246. 

Shelley,  396-409. 

Shenstone,  255,  256,  410. 

Sidney,  Sir  P.,  92-100,  136  note. 

Simylus,  32. 

Smith,  Mr.  D.  Nichol,  366. 

,  Mr.  Gregory,  iii. 


Spectator,  The,  177-200. 
Spenser,  104,  105,  240,  241. 
Spingarn,  Mr.  J.  E.,  85,  92  note. 
Stobaeus,  32. 
Sublime,  On  the,  xi,  41-53. 


Taine,  417,  418. 

Theocritus,  67. 

Thucydides,  37,  38,  46. 

Tirso  de  Molina,  136,  137. 

Traits'  du  Poeme  Epique,  141,  142. 

Turia,  R.  de,  137. 

Twining,  iv,  1-21  passim. 


Vida,  85,  86. 
Villemain,  410-412. 
Virgil,  74,  75. 
Voltaire,  259. 

W 

Webbe,  104-106. 

Welldon,  Bp.,  iv,  xi,  21-31  passim. 
Wilson,  [Sir]  T.,  89,  90. 
Wordsworth,  262-302.    See  also  under 
Coleridge  and  Shelley. 


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